


Rumor Has It

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: First Time, Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pre-Canon, Romance, Romance Fail, Rumors, Sticky Sex, Threesome, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's reputation precedes them. Amusingly, so does Ratchet's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumor Has It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> a/n: For fuzipenguin's fic trade prompt: Transformers, any continuity. Ratchet/Twins, inexperience. I'm picturing the scenario that the Twins have a pretty huge reputation of sexual conquests that follows them as they join the Autobot unit with Ratchet. They meet Ratchet on their first physical and instantly want to have a relationship with him. They want to court him but are totally clueless how to go about it and even when they finally get Ratchet into the berth they're a little clueless there too because they've never actually *had* any sexual experiences in the past. Virginal!Twins for the win!
> 
> This fic is mostly romantic humor with a few dashes of angst because fraggit, I can't write the twins without angst. I don't have a beta but I've read this over and over. I may have missed something. Point it out, I don't mind. :)

For many battles, they'd been lucky. Minor damage. Dents and scrapes. Nothing a little self-repair or quietly bribed junior medic couldn't fix.  
  
This time, their luck had run out. Sideswipe was carrying his own leg for Primus' sake.  
  
Sunstreaker fared little better. His helm was dented, pressing in on a major neural line. He kept going into random spasms and twitches. He'd dropped his twin twice.  
  
Sideswipe was not amused.  
  
They would both need surgery. Intensive, skilled surgery. Procedures that Hoist just couldn't perform no matter how big their optics got or how much they pleaded.  
  
They would have to submit themselves to the Hatchet.  
  
Sunstreaker hadn't asked anyone to help them to the dreaded Medbay Delta, home of the terrible, horrible senior medic. He wanted to head to his own deactivation with some dignity.  
  
Okay. So perhaps he and Sideswipe were more or less limping there, but they were walking under their own power! And that was what mattered.  
  
They passed Smokescreen.  
  
The gambler databurst them a file of a funereal dirge he must have picked up from some other planet. Hah. Very funny mech.  
  
 _Not._  
  
“They says he's as old as the Pit. Older even,” Sideswipe murmured, half-delirious from pain and energon loss. Oh, Hoist had patched up the worst of the leaks, got them mobile, but the rest, he said, would have to be fixed by Ratchet.  
  
 _Ratchet._  
  
Both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had shuddered in tandem. They'd never met the famed Hatchet. But they'd heard stories. Lots and lots of stories.  
  
“I heard that he doesn't like to use sensor numbers,” Sunstreaker replied with a shudder.  
  
“And that he's scarier than Megatron and Unicron combined.”  
  
“Uglier, too.”  
  
“And meaner,” Sideswipe whined, sagging a little, as though considering digging in his heels, wanting to lick their wounds in private. “Everyone knows he hates injuries caused by stupidity.”  
  
“We were fighting Decepticons.”  
  
“By jumping on Seekers mid-air!” Sideswipe countered, his vocals rising with a bit of an anxious squeak.  
  
Yeah, well, hmm. Yes, that could possibly be considered stupid.  
  
Sunstreaker winced. “You're right. We're in for it now.”  
  
They stopped outside of Medbay Delta, staring at the door ominously spattered with bright blue. There weren't any viewing windows in the doors either. But there was a panel, indicating that the medbay could be locked down if need be.  
  
“He's going to offline us for sure,” Sideswipe whispered, voice barely carrying beyond Sunstreaker's audials.  
  
“Or worse,” Sunstreaker agreed.  
  
Sideswipe looked up at his twin with no small amount of panic. “What could be worse?”  
  
“He could turn ya into maintenance drones.”  
  
Both twins nearly leapt out of their plating as a mech detached himself from the shadows and dropped into view. Oh. It was Jazz.  
  
“Maintenance drones!” Sideswipe paled.  
  
Or, possibly, that was due to the energon loss.  
  
“Yeah.” Jazz grinned, jerking a thumb toward the ominous door. “Better be on yer best behavior then. Good luck, m'mechs.”  
  
And then Jazz was gone, leaving them to face their terrible fate alone.  
  
“It doesn't hurt that badly,” Sideswipe said, inching back from the door with little, amusing hops.  
  
Sunstreaker's grip on his brother's waist tightened. “Liar. I can tell. C'mon, we're frontliners aren't we? We shouldn't be afraid of anything!”  
  
“I'm not afraid!” Sideswipe insisted. “I'm... cautious. Wary. Hesitant.”  
  
In other words, afraid.  
  
Suddenly, the door to Medbay Delta swooshed open and a mech came scampering out, running as if Unicron himself was giving chase. In his wake, a mini-scanner came pelting out of the medbay.  
  
Sunstreaker ducked and the scanner sailed over his helm, denting the wall behind him.  
  
“Good luck!” the nameless mech called over his shoulder as he careened down the hall and was gone before Sunstreaker could so much as register the color of his paint.  
  
“Uhhh.” Sideswipe stared longingly in the fleeing mech's direction.  
  
“Come on,” Sunstreaker said, determined to be the logical one.  
  
He grabbed his brother and strode into Medbay Delta with more bravado than he possessed. Every sensor was on edge, waiting for signs of danger. Sideswipe muttered something but hopped along, still clutching his leg.  
  
Sunstreaker saw berths. Medical equipment. A door on the left which probably indicated a recharge room. And then he saw Ratchet.  
  
A medic who, by the way, was not ugly in the slightest. That paint! Those optics! That chevron! Sunstreaker wanted to lick it. He didn't know why, but the urge to run his glossa over that red chevron stole over him completely.  
  
And something inside of him clicked on with a quiet, telling whirr.  
  
“What the frag!” Ratchet said, his voice a low growl that made Sideswipe cringe and Sunstreaker gape. “Where are your escorts?”  
  
Sideswipe smiled weakly. “Uh. Didn't need any?”  
  
“The frag you didn't!”  
  
Ratchet rushed toward them.  
  
Sideswipe panicked, and only Sunstreaker's grip kept him from hopping away.  
  
“On the berth! Now!”  
  
Ratchet grabbed Sideswipe's arm, snatching the detached limb as well.  
  
Sideswipe latched onto Sunstreaker. “No! Don't let him take me! I want to live!” he cried.  
  
It would have been amusing if it weren't so slagged embarrassing. Sunstreaker wasn't sure how Ratchet had acquired such an unsavory reputation, but all he could see right now was a medic who wanted to help. Even if he did have absolutely no berthside manner to speak of.  
  
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. Ratchet stopped attempting to detach Sideswipe and stared at both of them, something inexplicable behind his gaze.  
  
“Do you want to be fixed or not?” he asked in a flat tone.  
  
“He wants to be fixed,” Sunstreaker said without waiting for Sideswipe to answer and therefore embarrass them further.  
  
“Then Get. On. The. Berth.”  
  
The order left no room for interpretation. Sunstreaker nodded and dragged his annoying brother to the nearest berth, easily hefting Sideswipe onto it. He weighed a good deal less without a leg.  
  
“Sunny...”  
  
“Don't call me that,” he growled as he tried to make Sideswipe comfortable, watching from the edge of his optical sensors as Ratchet moved with purpose around the medbay, gathering up various tools and cleaning supplies.  
  
“But...” Sideswipe gripped his arm, dragging him closer so that their helms nearly collided. “He's hot as all frag!”  
  
Sunstreaker felt like smacking himself in the faceplate. Maybe this, too, was the energon loss talking. Though he _agreed_ with his idiot twin, now was hardly the time.  
  
“Later,” Sunstreaker said, trying to hide the fact he was ogling the irascible medic's shapely aft. Mech was probably old enough to be their creator twice over!  
  
“You, too!” Ratchet barked, gesturing at Sunstreaker as the light prickle of a deep scan scurried over Sunstreaker's circuits. “I can't believe Hoist let both of you drag yourselves here. What was he thinking?”  
  
“He wasn't?” Sideswipe suggested, though it sounded more like a question.  
  
“Frag right he wasn't!” Ratchet agreed and hustled Sunstreaker onto a berth. “The both of you are in sorry shape. What've you been doing? Divebombing Decepticons?”  
  
Sunstreaker winced; Sideswipe echoed him.  
  
“Something like that,” Sideswipe edged, quailing as Ratchet rounded, looming over him on the berth.  
  
Ratchet's optics cycled down to narrow pinpoints. “How is it like that?” He held up one hand, surgical saw gleaming and sharp.  
  
He wouldn't really use it on them.  
  
Would he?  
  
Maybe it was time for a distraction?  
  
“Ow,” Sunstreaker said, long and exaggerated, only to clutch at his chestplates in fake expression of pain.  
  
Sideswipe was the better actor than him, but beggars couldn't be choosers and Sunstreaker really wanted to be fixed like yesterday. The scratches in his paint were making him twitchy.  
  
Ratchet whirled toward him. “Ow?” he repeated.  
  
“Ow,” Sunstreaker said, and flopped back against the berth, faceplate twisted with a grimace.  
  
His left leg twitched. That wasn't faked. Oh scrap. His actual injury was acting up. Perfect timing.  
  
Ratchet, like a good medic, zeroed in on the twitch and Sunstreaker felt the energetic prickle of another fast-paced scan zipping over his frame.  
  
Crisis averted. For now.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“So,” Sideswipe said with a loud enunciation of the single syllable. “What're we going to do about this?”  
  
Sunstreaker grunted, turning on his side away from his annoying brother. “Do about what?”  
  
“Ratchet,” Sideswipe said and Sunstreaker felt him reach over, poking fingers against Sunstreaker's back and between armor plating.  
  
Sunstreaker ex-vented loudly, onlining his optics to the dim of Medbay Delta, lit only by emergency lights. The both of them were supposed to be resting and recovering. Not chatting until all joors of the orn. Ratchet had threatened them with limb removal if either of them so much as twitched off the berth.  
  
“What about him?” Sunstreaker asked, though his memory core supplied him with a nice dose of images.  
  
Those clean lines! The perfect contrast of red and white paint! The lack of fear in Ratchet's optics or even so much as unease. He just bulldozed over the twins like he didn't know who they were!  
  
Sunstreaker's engine gave a quiet purr at the thought.  
  
“He's actually pretty nice,” Sideswipe said.  
  
“Are you glitched? Or is that all the seds talking?”  
  
Sideswipe exvented loudly. “I'm serious, Sunstreaker. I like him.”  
  
Sunstreaker turned on his side to face his brother. “The same as you like Prowl?” he asked with worrisome suspicion starting to build.  
  
Prowl who was stern but fair to them even if they were twins with a reputation. Prowl was like the caretaker they never had. Though Sunstreaker would sooner tear off his own arms before admitting such a thing aloud.  
  
Sideswipe grinned. “No. Differently. Like a tingle in my interface.”  
  
Sunstreaker's engine rumbled, his suspicions proved correct. “You mean like Arcee.”  
  
The very same femme who was responsible for most of their dubious reputation. Rumors spread fast amongst the Autobots, especially ones with no basis in truth.  
  
“Yeah.” Sideswipe's optics briefly dimmed in remembered disappointment. “But I don't think Ratchet's like her.”  
  
Sunstreaker huffed loudly. “We just met. We've known him for like three joors. How can you possibly tell?”  
  
Sideswipe shrugged. “Just can.”  
  
His brother was an absolute moron.  
  
“Then what do you intend to do about it? A mech like him isn't going to be interested in gutter trash like us,” Sunstreaker demanded, though he was careful to keep his vocals low and hushed. No need to call the wrath of Ratchet down upon them.  
  
Sideswipe winced, but never lost that dopey grin of his. The seds really must have been wreaking havoc on his processors. “Don't worry, bro. I got a plan.”  
  
Oh, but that was what worried Sunstreaker the most. Sideswipe's plans never followed course and backfired more often than not.  
  
But if he wanted to crash and burn, Sunstreaker would be right there beside him. What else were brothers for? Besides, Sunstreaker admitted interest in Ratchet, too. Not that he could explain why either.  
  
“Go to recharge, Sideswipe.”  
  
“But I'm lonely.” Sideswipe's left arm reached out, measuring the bare distance between them, fingers poking at Sunstreaker's chestplate in frank invitation.  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics. “We're an arm-length apart, idiot.”  
  
Sideswipe said nothing, only widened his optics, dipping his mouthplates into a very familiar, very irresistible pout.  
  
Frag it. Sunstreaker couldn't say no to that look. He never could. Frag him and his weakness.  
  
He labored himself off the berth with a heavy ex-vent. “Ratchet's going to yell.”  
  
Sideswipe instantly brightened, scooting over on the narrow space to make room for Sunstreaker. “We'll deal with that when it comes,” he said and snuggled up close the very moment Sunstreaker settled. Rather like a clinging organic at that. “Sweet recharge, Sunny.”  
  
“Same to you,” the yellow mech grumbled, and lightly knocked his twin on the hip. “And don't call me that.”  


o0o0o

  
  
“So I hear you've finally met Prowl's newest, favorite recruits.”  
  
To his credit, Ratchet neither squealed like a sparkling nor startled at the voice slithering at him out of the shadows. He thought he'd locked his office door. Trust Jazz to deftly override it.  
  
“Why hello Jazz,” Ratchet greeted sourly, looking up from his console to greet the surprise visitor. “Thanks for stopping by uninvited.”  
  
“Always happy to visit my favorite medic!” Jazz chirped with a bright grin that made Ratchet instantly wary.  
  
Jazz was the craftiest mech on base and it was impossible to tell what he was plotting. He was notorious for having... schemes. Schemes not even his lover or brother could discover until after they were said and done.  
  
“Favorite?” Ratchet repeated with a raised orbital ridge. “Hoist will be sparkbroken.”  
  
Jazz chuckled and happily flopped himself down in the extra chair provided in Ratchet's office, though it was less a chair and more a torture device, clearly the most uncomfortable piece of furniture to be found in this base. Jazz winced, but it was gone in a flash, replaced by his cheerful persona.  
  
“Witty banter aside,” Jazz continued. “I notice ya ignored my earlier statement.”  
  
Ratchet returned his attention to his console, transmitting his case notes on all of the surgeries he completed today and adding more details to his patients' files. “Since it was clear you were being rhetorical, I did. Or were you hoping for a specific observation?”  
  
Jazz lounged against the chair, overhead lights catching his perfectly polished plating in an enticing display. “They're a pair of good-looking mechs, aren't they?”  
  
“Hard not to notice.” Ratchet typed up a few more entries, noting where he would have to follow up on a joint replacement. Omega was particularly hard on his ankles. “Sunstreaker didn't stop griping about his paint job for a single breem.”  
  
“Yep. That's Sunny fer ya. The vainest mech you'll ever meet.”  
  
“Charming.”  
  
“He sure thinks so.”  
  
“From what I hear, that's certainly true.” Ratchet paused, eying the mech sitting across the desk from him, who was still doing his level best to pose quite seductively. “Is there a reason you're pestering me about the twins?”  
  
Jazz lifted a hand, turning it back and forth, examining it thoroughly, radiating nonchalance. “Just curious.”  
  
“Right.” Ratchet's vocals were flat, brimming with disbelief.  
  
He looked at Jazz again, who was now idly trailing said hand down his chassis, a gleaming chassis that invited a mech to touch.  
  
Ratchet leaned back in his chair. “Does Blaster know that you're here trying to seduce me?”  
  
Jazz chuckled in deep, dark tones. “Who do you think sent me?” he purred, propping one pede up on the desk and displaying the length of one long, lean leg.  
  
Ratchet shook his helm. “Thanks, but no thanks, Jazz. I'm a bit too busy for one of your famous orgies, as fun as it sounds.” The temptation was definitely there though.  
  
Jazz's lower lipplate trembled, pouting. His visor dimmed to a pale blue, energy field trying to reach out with caressing intention.  
  
“And that look doesn't work on me either,” Ratchet added, returning to his documentation and pretending he wasn't eying the attractive mech from his lateral sensors.  
  
Jazz's help dipped. “Aww. You're no fun.”  
  
“I live to disappoint,” Ratchet retorted dryly.  
  
Levering himself up out of the uncomfortable chair, Jazz engaged in a long, joint-crackling stretch. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”  
  
“I won't.”  
  
Working. He was working. Not, for instance, watching Jazz lazily stretch each and every one of his limbs.  
  
Jazz chuckled. But didn't leave.  
  
Ratchet paused, ignoring the pings in his interface unit for attention. No, he would not like to heat up right now, thank you very much. “Was there something else?”  
  
“Just a friendly piece of advice.” For a moment, the cheerful teasing vanished. “Don't believe everything you hear in the Autobot rumor mill.”  
  
Then he left.  
  
Ratchet ex-vented. What the scrap was that enigmatic statement supposed to mean? Slag Jazz and his determination to remain a mystery.  
  
A very attractive one, mind. Ratchet's half-revved just from that little display. And what was all that about the twins anyway? Unless Prowl was not so subtly asking for an update on his newest, favorite frontliners. Prowl was as sneaky as his brother sometimes.  
  
Speaking of...  
  
Ratchet glanced down at his monitors, only to spiral out his optics as one of them blinked a cautious yellow at him. He quickly brought up the images of Medbay Delta, scanning the berths where he'd left the twins. Neither of them were close to critical condition but still...  
  
Oh.  
  
Sunstreaker had moved to Sideswipe's berth. No wonder his sensors were detecting a blip in their readings. They had no patient to monitor.  
  
Ratchet's finger tapped a nonsense rhythm on the desktop as he watched the two offline mechs, who in recharge looked as close to innocent as a pair of pit-raisers could look.  
  
Jazz was right in one thing. They were an attractive pair.  
  
Ratchet cut off the monitor and got back to work.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were released from Medbay Delta with little fanfare. In fact, Ratchet barely grunted a greeting at them, ordering them to take it easy for a couple of cycles, before booting them out the door without so much as a smile.  
  
It was a bit disappointing.  
  
Sideswipe, of course, started to mope immediately. “He barely even looked at us,” he whined.  
  
Sunstreaker grabbed Sideswipe's elbow, dragging his brother him. “We're filthy. And I need to repaint.”  
  
“But Sunny--”  
  
“I thought you said you had a plan,” Sunstreaker interrupted, slowing his pace once he realized Sideswipe still had a bit of a limp. No wonder Ratchet had snarled at them to take it easy.  
  
Sideswipe's optics brightened. “I do. Step one involves gifts. Lots of gifts.”  
  
“What kind of gifts?”  
  
And where on Cybertron did his twin expect to purchase these gifts? The economy was pretty much a tattered ruin, all shops in Iacon that weren't war related had been boarded up and shut down, and on top of that, they didn't have any credits.  
  
“The kind a medic could love,” Sideswipe replied, finally falling into step beside Sunstreaker without the need to be dragged.  
  
Sunstreaker scratched at his olfactory sensor. “A bottle of lubricant?”  
  
Sideswipe skipped ahead of him, until he was walking backward to face his twin. “Sunny, you have no sense of romance.” He lifted his hands in broad gestures, going so far as to flap them. “I'm talking crystals! High grade! Energon goodies! Mmm. Rust sticks.”  
  
His twin got a distant look in his optics, no doubt already imagining the taste of his favorite rust stick. Sometimes, Sunstreaker swore that Sideswipe had the processing capacity of an iron-gnat. He was so easily distracted.  
  
“Those are the types of things _you'd_ want,” Sunstreaker pointed out, just to be contrary. “I don't think it'll work for Ratchet.”  
  
Sideswipe ex-vented loudly, waggling a finger at him. “Oh ye of little faith. Don't you trust me? Everyone likes energon goodies!”  
  
Sunstreaker was far from convinced. But he let Sideswipe have his way. It wasn't like he had a better plan.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Someone was buzzing his quarters. Ratchet had only just cycled into recharge, his systems sluggishly booting up with much reluctance. A growl lingered in his vocalizer as the ping came again, more insistent this time.  
  
Oh. Some mech was going to be very dented by the time Ratchet was through with him!  
  
He flung himself out of the berth, pedes stomping across the floor, warning whoever would dare disturb him at this terrible joor. His belongings rattled on their shelves. His optics gleamed dismemberment.  
  
He stomped up to his door, slammed a fist against the panel, and glared as the door slid open with a lazy _shuunt_.  
  
No one was waiting on the other side.  
  
“What the frag!” He spat a curse into the empty hallway and strode out, looking up and down the corridor.  
  
Not a mech in sight.  
  
He hadn't imagined the door ping. And he was going to throttle whosoever buzzed his quarters only to flee.  
  
Ratchet turned, intending to re-enter his quarters, and promptly tripped on the box sitting on the floor. How he'd missed it when he'd stomped out of the door, he'd never know.  
  
Ratchet snatched the box off the floor, storming back into his room as his door slid back shut with a wobbly _shklunct_. The contents rattled noisily. Someone had messily scrawled his designation across the top of it.  
  
Hmm.  
  
Curiosity overrode any possible wariness. That and an overwhelming need for recharge. Biting back a twitch, he popped open the box and peered inside, only to have his vents hitch as he in-vented crystal dust.  
  
Crystals. Someone had sent him crystals, from Praxus judging by the color. He didn't know whether to be pleased or baffled or irritated. What the frag would he do with crystals?  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics and shoved the box onto an empty space on the shelves.  
  
Back to recharge it was then.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Over the course of the next two decaorns, Ratchet found himself being bothered at random joors with more “gifts.”  
  
Tins of expensive wax as if to say he was in need of a good polish. Ratchet tossed them onto a shelf to be forgotten. When did he have time to indulge in such a thing?  
  
A decanter of rich Polyhexian high grade, strong enough to knock even a medic out, tertiary processing systems and all. He gave it to First Aid, who Ratchet was certain then distributed it amongst his brothers.  
  
A tray of candied energon, the kind that clogged filters, gummed up denta and made a generally unpleasant mess. In other words, the very sort of candies that Ratchet despised and were a poor choice in nutritional supplementation.  
  
He ended up leaving the tray on the front desk in Medbay Alpha. They were probably gone in a matter of breem. He was sure that if he went and checked now, there'd be nothing but a few dribbles left behind on the tray.  
  
Ratchet supposed anyone else would be flattered by the gifts. Pleased even. But honestly, Ratchet himself didn't have the time to pay them much attention. Nor did he have the time to spare in order to discover the identity of his anonymous admirer. He had better things to do.  
  
For instance, his part of the long, long list of mechs scheduled for their vornly maintenance check. He, Hoist, and First Aid had divided the forces stationed at the base amongst themselves, but there was still a great number of them.  
  
Therefore, Ratchet did not have time for admirers too shy to identify themselves. He had neither the patience to coax them out of their timid frame, nor the interest.  
  
Grabbing his datapad with his list, Ratchet walked into the corridor, checking the next victim – ahem, bot – assigned to him. He cracked a grin at the waiting mechs for this particular orn.  
  
“All right, Blue,” he said, gesturing to the door in open invitation. “You're up next.”  
  
The cheerful gunner leapt to his pedes, displaying none of the wariness of his peers. “Only if you promise me a rust stick.”  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics; Smokescreen had certainly spoiled his younger brother. “You haven't been a youngling for several vorns.”  
  
Indeed, Bluestreak wasn't even a youngling when Smokescreen brought them to the Autobots, but somehow, the loquacious mech had become the sweetspark of the entire crew anyway. Even more so than Bumblebee, who was arguably one of their oldest members, yet so pleasant and sweet that many mistook him to be younger than his majority. Somehow, they all neatly forgot Bumblebee's position within their ranks.  
  
“But I like rust sticks!” Bluestreak retorted as he climbed up onto the main berth, no trace of fear in his optics. It was quite refreshing.  
  
Ratchet chuckled, tapping his datapad to change the display from his list to Bluestreak's personal file. “I think I have a few hidden somewhere.”  
  
Bluestreak grinned, leaning back against the elevated berth, doorwings twitching until they were comfortable. “I knew you would.”  
  
Ratchet shook his helm and got to work, activating his preliminary scanners. He wanted to get an overall view of Bluestreak's current functioning.  
  
He paused, leaning in to get a closer look. “Bluestreak, what in Unicron's rusted underarmor is on your hands?”  
  
Bluestreak looked down, wiggling his sticky fingers. “Oh. Energon gummies.”  
  
“They're clogging up your joints!” Ratchet said, exasperated. See? This was why he hated the slagging things, no matter how delicious they were.  
  
“They were good,” Bluestreak insisted. “I can't believe you didn't want them. Sunny and Sides must be so disappointed.”  
  
Ratchet, in the midst of reaching for some good solvent, rebooted his audials. “What do Sunstreaker and Sideswipe have to do with it?”  
  
“Didn't you read the note?”  
  
“What note?”  
  
Ratchet dumped the solvent on Bluestreak's fingers and started working it into his joints. He would need to reapply lubricant and such afterward, but right now, getting out the gummed energon was priority one.  
  
“The one on the bottom of the tray.” Bluestreak exvented loudly, and squirmed a little as Ratchet's tiny cleaning brush scrubbed at his joints. His hands were probably sensitive, as finely tuned as they were.  
  
“I never saw a note.”  
  
“Well, there was one.” Bluestreak tilted his helm and stared at Ratchet. “Wait a klik. You mean you didn't know they were the ones sending you the gifts?” He laughed and grinned brightly. “Wait till I tell, Smoker! All of his betting logs will crash!”  
  
Ratchet looked up from his scrubbing. This didn't make any sense to him. Why would Sunstreaker and Sideswipe send him gifts?  
  
“No, I didn't know,” Ratchet replied.  
  
But by Primus, he was going to find out.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“It's not working,” Sunstreaker said as he paged through his sketchbook, trying to find something to stir his inspiration. He felt oddly listless as of late. Even moreso than usual.  
  
Sideswipe scoffed, fiddling with... something. Sunstreaker wasn't sure what to call it except perhaps Trouble. Because Sideswipe wasn't happy unless he was causing it.  
  
“Just wait,” Sideswipe said, circling around and around his creation with a critical optic. “This is only stage one remember?”  
  
There were more stages? Great.  
  
“We just have to get him to notice us,” Sideswipe added and planted his hands on his hips with a satisfied burst of his energy field. “We have to stand out from the crowd of mechs.”  
  
“We already stand out,” Sunstreaker drawled, pointing his stylus at his brother. “We're twins. How much more unusual can you get?”  
  
“You'll see.” Sideswipe rubbed his chin. “Do you think it needs more purple?”  
  
“Sideswipe, I can honestly say that I don't know what it is so I can't say whether or not it needs more purple or pink or fragging chartreuse,” Sunstreaker said, shaking his helm.  
  
His brother was such an idiot.  
  
“And you say I have no imagination,” Sideswipe grumbled, throwing up his hands only to turn and throw himself across the foot of Sunstreaker's berth, like a sparkling throwing a tantrum. “Guess what?”  
  
“I'm not playing this game with you.”  
  
Sideswipe faked a pout, propping himself up on his elbows. “We've been scheduled for our vornly maintenance checks.”  
  
Sunstreaker was well aware of this. He had the reminder set in his HUD after all. His appointment was after his shift tomorrow and, unsurprisingly, Sideswipe's was right before it. “Your point?”  
  
“Did you even look to see who our assigned medic was?”  
  
He dutifully pulled up the assignment, scanning the instructions for the relevant information. Huh. Would you look at that? Who did they have to thank for this lucky assignment?  
  
Sideswipe laughed, a sound which was quite menacing and sent a tickle up Sunstreaker's backstrut. “Prepare for stage two,” he said.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sideswipe was late and Sunstreaker was early. Ratchet assumed this was because they preferred to attend together. This did not lessen Ratchet's irritation in the slightest.  
  
He was waiting for them with impatiently tapping pedes, half-focused on glaring at the ticking chronometer in the corner of his HUD.  
  
“Ratchet!” Sideswipe strode into Medbay Delta with arms spread wide, a slag-eating grin on his lipplates, and a happy chirp in his vocalizer. “We missed you.”  
  
Sunstreaker didn't seem to share his brother's enthusiasm.  
  
Ratchet dipped his helm, levering a stare on the two. “You're late.”  
  
“I'm early,” Sunstreaker corrected.  
  
Ratchet twitched. He felt it all over, minute shifting of his plating from his helm to his pedes. “You are not my only patients. I don't appreciate you wasting my time.”  
  
Some of the bounce in Sideswipe's step vanished. “I'll just get on a berth then?” he said, more a question, and pointed to said berth.  
  
“A wise choice.” Ratchet's optics shifted to Sunstreaker. “You, too.”  
  
Both twins complied without argument. Ratchet was free to conduct the inspection without interruption.  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
Sideswipe, apparently, was even less capable of keeping his mouthplate clamped shut than Bluestreak. So while Ratchet gathered his tools and scanners and approached them, Sideswipe started to chat.  
  
“So did you get our gifts?”  
  
He had a duty and a responsibility to remain professional, Ratchet reminded himself.  
  
He hefted up a scanner, one that would tell him of any injuries, serious or benign. If either mech had so much as a scratched tibial strut, Ratchet would know about it.  
  
“I did,” Ratchet confirmed.  
  
Ratchet's sensors prickled. He was standing in front of Sideswipe, the focus of the red mech's attention, but he could also feel Sunstreaker staring at him, too. And there was something far more intent about the yellow twin's gaze. It was slightly disconcerting.  
  
Sideswipe kicked out his legs like a sparkling. “And?”  
  
Ratchet's scanner beeped, databursting him the results, and he then turned the device onto Sunstreaker, letting his processor unpack and examine Sideswipe's stats. “I appreciate the gesture, but it wasn't necessary,” he replied.  
  
Sideswipe's faceplate pinched with confusion. “Not necessary? But--”  
  
“I am a medic,” Ratchet said before Sideswipe could get another word. He tossed a glance the red mech's way, not missing the slump of his shoulders. “It's my job to fix you. An expression of gratitude is not needed.”  
  
Another beep signaled the end of Sunstreaker's scan and Ratchet secured those results as well, shutting down his scanner. He made a thoughtful noise, picking through the statistics and examining them.  
  
“Well, recent repairs aside, you two are actually quite functional,” Ratchet commented, though a direct maintenance would still need to be done, along with the changing of certain filters, lubricants, and minor systems prone to wear. “Which is a surprise considering the state of your medical files.”  
  
The ones sent over from their previous station were some of the largest files Ratchet had ever seen on a mech. Moreso than even Ironhide, who was pretty much a magnet for the largest pieces of artillery on the battlefield. How two mechs could accumulate so much damage and live to tell the tale Ratchet would never know. They must be blessed by Primus himself.  
  
Sunstreaker made a noise of prideful derision. “What else would you expect?” he asked, gesturing to the pristine nature of his own chassis.  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics, turning toward his supply cabinets for the necessary supplies to complete their maintenance. “If you took half as good of care of yourself on the battlefield as you do outside it, perhaps we'd see less of you in our medbays.”  
  
“Cons don't exactly play nice,” Sideswipe said. “We do what's necessary. It's what Prime got us for, you know.”  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge, facing them with an armful of filters, lubricant bottles, and replacement wires. “Leaping on Seekers mid-air is necessary? We do have anti-aerial missiles, you know. And our sharpshooter division is the best in Iacon.”  
  
“We know. We've met Bluestreak.” Sideswipe grinned at his brother, trading a knowing look.  
  
“I'm sure you have,” Ratchet muttered subvocal.  
  
Ratchet didn't want to know. He'd heard the rumors. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were well-known for their routine of “meeting” a mech. They'd only been on this base for a quarter-vorn but apparently, they'd already faced a third of the stationed crew. Everyone wanted a taste of the famous gladiator twins, forged in the pits of Kaon and a rare delicacy the likes of Iacon had never seen.  
  
Ratchet snorted. He'd been online since Unicron rose from the Pit, according to rumor, so he'd seen it all. A pair of twins was hardly so novel to him. They were just mechs. Attractive ones, mind, but just mechs all the same.  
  
Which reminded him... mechs who crossed cables as much as these two did probably needed a good virus scan and firewall update. He added that to his mental checklist on their maintenance. And maybe an interface panel inspection as well, for general wear and tear which could get quite painful if left unattended. Oh, and a refill of their lubricant and transfluid reservoirs.  
  
Sideswipe gave Ratchet a long, measured look, cycling his optics down. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
“I should think it rather obvious,” Ratchet grunted, hooking a mobile cart with his pede and pulling it closer to him, dumping his maintenance supplies atop it. “If either of you have any complaints, now's the time to voice them. Well? Squeaky joints? Sensor issues?” He paused, a smirk curling his lipplates. “Interfacing difficulties?”  
  
Both twins gave him matching looks of disbelief. Their energy fields radiated with startled indignity. Inwardly, Ratchet cackled.  
  
Sideswipe's mouth opened and closed several times, looking like a drone stuck in a programming look. “I-interfacing difficulties?” he spluttered.  
  
Sunstreaker's faceplate visibly heated and his helm lifted. “We're in perfect health. You said it yourself.”  
  
Ratchet lifted his shoulders. “Sometimes patients know what the scanners don't.” He lifted a can of cydraulic fluid. “Open up.”  
  
His comm chose that very moment to beep at him, just when Sideswipe looked to be finally getting over his moment of indignation and Sunstreaker's expression devolved into something quite stormy and bewildered.  
  
\--Ratchet, please report to the Munitions Locker.--  
  
Ratchet scowled at Prowl's calm request. --If that idiot engineer's blown himself up again, he can pull himself back together.--  
  
\--I shall be certain to let Ironhide know that you declined to treat him.--  
  
Oh, so it was Ironhide this time? Ratchet felt amusement replace the annoyance. It wasn't often he had blackmail on the weapons specialist.  
  
An almost terrible glee rose within Ratchet. --I'll be right there,-- he replied and closed off the comm, redirecting his attention to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.  
  
“Saved by the bot,” Ratchet announced, dumping the canister back onto the cart with a noisy clatter. “I'm needed in the munitions locker and you two just earned yourselves a reprieve. But only for a couple of joors.”  
  
The twins exchanged glances again, talking perhaps over that eerie connection all split-spark twins seemed to share. Not that Ratchet had met dozens of them or anything.  
  
“We'll wait,” Sideswipe finally announced with a cheeky grin, optics sparkling.  
  
There was something about his tone, something that screamed caution to Ratchet's processors. He couldn't quite put a finger on why however.  
  
He eyed both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, the former still grinning, the latter frowning over a splotch on his chestplate.  
  
“Fine,” Ratchet said, and hefted his portable emergency medkit, tucking it under one arm. “Just... don't break anything.”  
  
“We wouldn't dare,” Sideswipe replied with a solemn note to his vocals.  
  
Sunstreaker said nothing, completely enraptured by his armor as he whipped out a polishing cloth and a small tin of wax. The fact that he carried such things in his subspace at all times was rather amusing.  
  
“See that you don't.”  
  
Ratchet left them in his medbay, but couldn't shake the eerie feeling that he'd somehow made a terrible mistake.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“I still say this is a stupid idea,” Sunstreaker said as Sideswipe leapt eagerly off the berth, barely less than two kliks after Ratchet left them alone in the medbay.  
  
Sideswipe scoffed, pulling open drawers and rifling through them without any regard to the rules and regulations. “Trust me. It's gonna work.”  
  
Sunstreaker shook his helm, carefully stowing away his portable polishing supplies. “It seems more likely to make him angry.”  
  
“But we'll have his attention,” Sideswipe corrected with a large, spark-stealing grin. He stuck out a hand toward his brothers, fingers wriggling expectantly. “Now hand me that glue. We don't have a lot of time.”  
  
Sunstreaker ex-vented softly.  
  
Sometimes, it just didn't pay to have Sideswipe for a twin.  
  
He handed Sideswipe the glue.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Ratchet was not amused. He said as much aloud, feeling the irritation and growing fury bubble up inside of him like one of Wheeljack's doomed experiments.  
  
“You're also bright pink.”  
  
Ratchet shifted his glare to Jazz, the unrepentant commander lounging against the wall, looking completely at ease. “Thank you, Commander Obvious. Any other observations you want to make?”  
  
Amusement radiated from Jazz's energy field, his visor gleaming a bright, entertained blue. “Hey, don't take your anger out on me.”  
  
“Why not?” Ratchet demanded, rounding toward the unhelpful mech. “Usually you are the one to blame.”  
  
Jazz tilted his helm, grinning. “Just doing my part ta keep morale up around here. But this wasn't me. Though I wish I could take credit for something so ingenious.”  
  
“Then who was it?” Ratchet gritted out through clenched denta, his vocalizer giving a fair approximation of an organic growl.  
  
“I believe I can answer that question.”  
  
Ratchet whirled toward the door as Prowl strode inside, doorwings held high and rigid, each motion clipped and conservative. His optics were sweeping the length and width of the medbay, taking in the _changes_ which were the source of Ratchet's building wrath.  
  
All of his tools, at least those not already bolted down, had been glued down to every available surface. Including the table tops, medberths, cabinet doors, ceiling and the floor. It was how Ratchet had first known something was wrong. He'd tripped on his second favorite wrench as he'd stepped inside.  
  
What few berths weren't covered in his tools had been turned upside down, the padded cushions now balanced across the four wheeled feet.  
  
The cap on the cube, the indignity to strafe all indignities, was the poorly constructed statue taking center stage in the medbay. Ratchet supposed that if he dialed down his optics and cycled through several levels of vision acuity, one could assume that said statue was a replica of Ratchet himself. Save for the fact that the monstrosity was painted a bright, lurid pink.  
  
All Ratchet wanted was a designation. He would have his revenge.  
  
“Well?” Ratchet prompted the tactician, whose doorwings were starting to twitch, indicating the effort he was putting forth to restrain his emotional output.  
  
Prowl's gaze slowly shifted to Ratchet. “It would appear that our favorite twins have finally decided to grace us with their infamous sense of humor.”  
  
“And apparently they've given you the dubious honor of being their first victim. Congratulations,” Jazz said with a smirk.  
  
He should have guessed.  
  
Ratchet's engine growled. He'd suspected leaving Sideswipe and Sunstreaker alone in his medbay was a bad idea. Now he had proof.  
  
“Lucky me,” Ratchet griped.  
  
“Don't worry,” Prowl said, giving Ratchet a companionable pat on his shoulder. “Wheeljack is working on a solvent to free your tools.”  
  
Ratchet felt a shudder wrack his back strut. “Great. He'll probably melt them and set my medbay on fire while he's at it.”  
  
Jazz laughed. “You should have confidence in your best friend, Ratch.”  
  
“I trust that he's going to be a pain in my aft,” Ratchet retorted and glared heatedly at his third favorite wrench, currently glued to the ceiling above his helm. How on Cybertron did they get it up that high? A ladder in their subspace?  
  
Prowl's doorwings twitched, as though he were holding back his own amusement. “I will take my leave now. I have some frontliners to inform of their punishment.”  
  
He left with surprising speed, as though sensing the acid storm brewing above Ratchet.  
  
Oh, yes, he thought. Inform them. But by Primus, don't warn them.  
  
Ratchet had plans. He'd let those Pit-spawned twins learn just how he'd gotten the designation “Hatchet.”  
  
He ran his hand down his faceplate. “I have the feeling those two are going to be the bane of my existence.”  
  
Seriously. How did they go from sending him gifts, albeit unwelcome ones, to pranking him?  
  
Jazz pushed himself off the wall. “Or the best thing that ever happened to you. Take your pick.”  
  
“I'd rather not.”  
  
“Suit yourself.” Jazz flicked his fingers at Ratchet, or rather, the hideously pink, barely-recognizable version of him. “Have fun with your gift.”  
  
Ratchet was left alone in his medbay, his HUD pinging him a reminder that his next maintenance appointment would be arriving in less than two breem. Oh, and he'd never finished Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's either.  
  
Ha. Served them right.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“I told you it was a dumb idea.”  
  
When it came to Sideswipe and his brilliant plans, Sunstreaker had no qualms about sniping 'I told you so' every chance he got.  
  
Sideswipe tended to give him a lot of opportunities to be right.  
  
“It still worked.”  
  
Sunstreaker glared through the energy bars of his cell at his brother who was across the way from him, also behind bars. “How could you consider our current accommodations a success?”  
  
It was cruel and unusual punishment. It was a severe overreaction. How could one tiny little prank merit this? Being separated from Sidewipe, forced to sleep in seperate berths. Sunstreaker could already feel the twitch in his spark, the eerie addiction-like craving he'd always had for his twin.  
  
Sideswipe leaned back, completely at ease, reclining on the berth and folding his arms behind his helm. “He's not going to forget us anytime soon. Ergo, I succeeded.”  
  
Sunstreaker braced his elbows on his knees, hunched over on the berth, sincerity getting the better of him. “Sideswipe.”  
  
There must have been something in his tone because the grin faded from his brother's lipplates. He turned his head, meeting Sunstreaker's optics. “What?”  
  
Sunstreaker clasped his hands together, fingers tapping over his knuckles. “Are you sure this is what you want?”  
  
“Aren't you?” Sideswipe tapped his chestplate, the soft _tink_ echoing in the brig. “And don't lie. Because I can tell.”  
  
He lowered his helm.  
  
No, Sunstreaker wasn't sure. He followed Sideswipe because his twin tended to understand their mutual wants better than Sunstreaker did.  
  
After their failed attempt with Arcee, Sunstreaker wasn't sure if he was ready to try again or not. It was embarrassing enough that they were vorns past their majority and still so inexperienced. They hadn't bothered to take interest in another bot – mech or femme – since. Not that they hadn't had opportunities.  
  
Until now, though, they hadn't agreed on anyone.  
  
Sideswipe had liked Bluestreak. Sunstreaker thought he babbled too much. And was reasonably sure that Bluestreak had a darker edge to him.  
  
Sunstreaker had suggested Mirage, as one of the few mechs on base who kept an immaculate, flawless paint job. Sideswipe had vetoed Mirage without ever giving a reason why though Sunstreaker had his suspicions.  
  
For a time, it had been like that. Back and forth. Designations suggested and vetoed and ignored and considered and bantered, but ultimately, they were left in the same position they'd been when their transfer request had finally gone through.  
  
Now Sideswipe wanted Ratchet. Of all the mechs to choose from on this base, he picked Ratchet. The cranky medic with a temper and a sniper's aim.  
  
The very attractive medic with sensitive hands and a blunt honesty that was rather refreshing.  
  
Sunstreaker's ventilations hitched. There was something about the contrast of all that white plating with those red, red hands and that equally red pelvic array that made Sunstreaker feel hot under his armor. He wanted to hold Ratchet down, press cloth and wax to that pristine paint, and make Ratchet writhe.  
  
He wanted to finally put his interfacing protocols to good use, to feel someone else's hands on his spike, stroking him to overload. He imagined how it would feel to slide into another mech's valve, maybe even Ratchet's. Or, in turn, to have the medic push into him, inch by inch. What would that sensation be like? Thicker than exploratory fingers, fuller than the tentative swipe of Sideswipe's glossa...  
  
Sunstreaker's cooling fans kicked on with an audible, telling whirr.  
  
Sideswipe's soft laughter filled the brig. “Yeah, that's what I thought, bro. Nice we can finally agree.”  
  
“I still think your plans are stupid,” Sunstreaker said, lifting his helm and rolling his optics. “Doomed to fail from the start.”  
  
“Fine.” Sideswipe kicked up his legs, looking perfectly at ease in his cell. “I get one more try. After that, it's your turn. If you think you can do better.”  
  
Sunstreaker leaned back, hands still resting on his thighs. “I know that I can.”  
  
“We'll see.”  
  


o0o0o

  
  
A decaorn of peace and quiet. Ratchet almost didn't know what to do with himself. Oh, certainly it wasn't completely peaceful. There were still petty squabbles amongst the crew stationed on base, the usual quarreling amongst mechs just waiting for the next bomb to drop or battle to engage.  
  
Still, it was a decaorn in which Ratchet could catch up on all the maintenance that was due, clearing up his cache and actually attend to his paperwork. It had only taken Wheeljack a few orns to get his tools unstuck, which helped. And Ratchet had ordered the engineer to dispose of the putridly pink likeness as well.  
  
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were in the brig, destined to stay there for the rest of the decaorn, or so Prowl assured him. And, Prowl added, they were likely to spend a lot of their free time in the brig, if their records from their previous base was anything to go by.  
  
Ratchet fought back a surge of disappointment. He barely knew the mechs after all. So what if they weren't going to be around to irritate him and prank him and gift him with nonsensical things.  
  
Peace and quiet. He loved the peace and quiet. It was wonderful. And quiet.  
  
It would be a pity when it was all over.  
  
Ratchet ex-vented, returned his attention to his datapad, and checked off another box of supplies. Inventory. Oh, so fun. If only he could foist it off on First Aid but no, his student was currently in Medbay Theta, learning all about joint reconstruction from Fixit. Fun times.  
  
He could, in all theory, round up a few interns that had survived the war, or perhaps a few mechs on punishment detail, and make them perform his inventory. But Ratchet had learned that both types of mechs tended to do a poor job of counting. He wanted accurate numbers, not hastily slapped together estimations.  
  
Ratchet peered into another box, counting the number of available spare energon pumps, noting their size and condition on his datapad. Supplies were running low everywhere, it seemed. This war was benefiting no mech. They were killing Cybertron bit by bit a little more each orn.  
  
Ratchet tapped his stylus on the datapad, feeling himself sliding toward melancholy. That just wouldn't do. Best to focus his energies on what was actually useful. Like counting.  
  
Or seeing who had just invited themselves into his medbay. Hoist was supposed to be the one on call this orn.  
  
Ratchet backed a step out of the supply room, peering into the main surgery. He caught a flash of yellow and red, his spark skipping a pulse.  
  
“You'd better be bleeding energon and glitching sparks,” Ratchet growled at the two of them, his optics watching their every move. By Primus, he wouldn't be caught unawares again.  
  
Sideswipe didn't so much as break stride. “We're in perfect health, Ratch,” he said brightly and made a show of looking around the medbay. “Thought we'd stop by for a visit, check out the changes.”  
  
Changes. Right. In other words, he wanted to see the aftermath of his prank. Well, tough luck, Sideswipe. Everything had been cleaned already.  
  
“There aren't any changes. Don't you two have work to be doing?”  
  
Sunstreaker didn't pay him a moment's attention, having found a mirror. He twisted and turned in front of it, trying to examine his dorsal plating.  
  
Sideswipe, however, waved him off, approaching with an almost worrisome intent. “Nope. Got a free shift.”  
  
“Well, lucky you.”  
  
Sideswipe beamed. “We think so, too.” He pointed at Ratchet's datapad. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Inventory.”  
  
“Can we help?”  
  
Ratchet straightened, staring at Sideswipe, who stared back at him, all big optics and wide innocence. Why, Ratchet would almost believe his honest intentions were it not for the fact he remembered what happened the last time he let those two miscreants loose in his medbay.  
  
“You're volunteering?” Ratchet demanded, suspicion coloring his tone. No mech volunteered for this duty. Why would they? It was tedious and time-consuming.  
  
“Yep!” Sideswipe's grin widened.  
  
Sunstreaker didn't agree, but he did stop admiring himself in the mirror, wandering over to stand next to his twin.  
  
Ratchet debated with himself.  
  
There were other tasks he could be completing. And what better way to punish the pranksters than to subject them to this processor-numbing task? Ratchet already had a fair idea of his current inventory so if any of the numbers were suspiciously off, he'd know.  
  
“All right,” Ratchet said, and felt his lipplates curve as he pushed the datapad into Sideswipe's startled hands. “But so help me Primus if I come back and find a single piece of scrap out of place, Prowl's punishment will look like a vacation.”  
  
“Wait,” Sideswipe said, visibly deflating. “Come back?”  
  
“It's easy,” Ratchet said, moving past the both of them. “Count and compare. Even a sparkling could do it.”  
  
He could hear them trailing after him, energy fields radiating disappointment. “But where are you going?” Sideswipe asked.  
  
“To take a much needed break.” Ratchet worked hard. He was due a visit to the refueling center, a freshly drawn cube, and a nice seat at one of the tables. Maybe Ironhide or Blaster would be there for a nice, relaxing chat.  
  
He all but heard Sideswipe's jaw drop. “But--”  
  
“Visit the washracks, too, while you're at it.”  
  
Ratchet paused, optical ridges raising incredulously as he turned.  
  
“Sunstreaker!” Sideswipe hissed, aghast.”  
  
Sunstreaker didn't so much as flinch. “Your finish is atrocious,” he added with a long, measuring look at Ratchet.  
  
The medic straightened to his full height, a good helm or so over the twins. “Excuse me?”  
  
He was a surgeon! The Chief Medical Officer of the Autobots! Pardon him if he didn't have time to stare endlessly into a mirror like Sunstreaker seemed so fond of doing!  
  
A loud clang echoed in the medbay as Sideswipe elbowed his brother in the side. Hard. He left a dent, too.  
  
Sunstreaker grunted, gave his brother a cold look, and then audibly reset his vocalizer. “I mean, that layer of battlefield grit really compliments your plating,” Sunstreaker corrected, his tone lacking sincerity.  
  
Sideswipe rolled his optics and then gave Ratchet a bright, encouraging smile. It didn't help.  
  
Ratchet danced between outrage and offense.  
  
“You...” He shook his helm and huffed, gathering up his control. “I'll be back in three joor. Don't break anything. And no glue.”  
  
Ratchet left before he could say something he'd regret or change his mind. A cube of energon sounded good right now.  
  
He also supposed it couldn't hurt to swing by the washracks.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Ratchet had only been gone for a klik when Sideswipe reached up, slapping his twin upside the helm. “Glitch. How the frag is that helpful?”  
  
Sunstreaker glared, rubbing at first the dent in his side then the scrape on his helm. “I was being honest. He needs a touch up. Besides, your idea sucked slag. This didn't exactly _help_.”  
  
“Would've worked a lot better if you hadn't insulted him,” Sideswipe retorted, and stared down at the datapad in his hands, a long list of items and numbers staring back at him.  
  
Sunstreaker snatched the datapad from Sideswipe's hands. “Whatever. You gonna admit you failed again or what?”  
  
Sideswipe pouted. Things didn't exactly work out to plan but half of it was Sunny's fault in the first place. Still, a deal was a deal.  
  
“No,” he retorted, grabbing the datapad back and making a beeline for the storage room. “But I'll let you take your turn. Let's see you do any better.”  
  
His twin smirked, shoving Sideswipe ahead of him into the room. “Prepare to be defeated.”  
  
Suddenly, Sideswipe couldn't help feeling just a bit sorry for Ratchet. He wouldn't see this coming.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Sunstreaker didn't get a chance to enact any of his plans because the very next orn, the Decepticons made for a bold and violent offensive into Autobot territory.  
  
Every available warrior was sent to the front lines, trying to keep the Decepticons from encroaching deeper into Iacon. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were one of the first sent out, the first to see action. Word had it that Prime had even ordered a phalanx of battle medics to serve as support, just in case.  
  
Sunstreaker simultaneously hoped that Ratchet was and wasn't one of them. He didn't want to see Ratchet harmed. But then, he wondered what kind of terror the medic might be on the battlefield.  
  
The battle lasted for five orns, and it was brutal. The Autobots barely held together enough to drive the Decepticons back. They were ruthlessly outnumbered and it was only by a combined effort from Wheeljack's newly invented one-shot weapon and a series of well-placed charges by Jazz's team that sent the Decepticons scurrying back to whatever city – Kaon probably – they'd crawled from.  
  
The victory had not been gained without cost.  
  
Too many mechs, too many lives. It brought the realities of the war home, not that Sunstreaker had ever been blind to them. He simply didn't choose to dwell on the horrors. He could be offlined in the next clash. He didn't want to waste whatever time he had left by wallowing in despair.  
  
The Decepticons _would_ be defeated.  
  
After the battle came necessary time for recovery. The Decepticons were licking their wounds; the Autobots struggled to piece themselves back together as well. It was hardly a good time for attempts at romancing.  
  
Then Cliffjumper opened his big, stinking mouthplate and Sunstreaker couldn't let an insult lie. Sideswipe, as always, backed him up and promptly thereafter Brawn and Windcharger got involved. There was a huge brawl, the washracks nearest to the refueling center got trashed, and the whole quarreling group got sent to the brig for a long, boring decaorn.  
  
After they got out, Ironhide assumed the recent fight was because they were bored and had nothing better to do. He then dragged every last one of them – minibots included – to the sparring grounds for some of his specially branded “training” which left both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe exhausted.  
  
All in all, nearly a diun passed before Sunstreaker had the opportunity to enact stage one of his plan. A whole diun in which they only time they were able to see Ratchet was when they ended up on his repair table.  
  
But all that was going to change now. Sunstreaker had a plan.  
  
He'd done all the research. Sideswipe had finished all the hacking.  
  
And now, all they had left to do was wait for the magic.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Ratchet was tired. Every strut ached, his gears were grinding, and he could use a serious grade of energon just to make it through the rest of the cycle.  
  
First, however, he had to make it through this meeting.  
  
The Decepticons were getting bolder, acting rash. They attacked when they should have retreated to treat their wounds. It was almost as though Megatron was losing the last edge of rationality in his processor.  
  
Right now Perceptor was going on about some plan he had for the construction of a large space vessel that could transport and support at least a hundred mechs. Ratchet was only partially paying attention. So far, the topic had nothing to do with him.  
  
His datapad pinged him.  
  
Ratchet stirred, looking down at the screen. The indicator in the corner was blinking. He had a new message. Curious.  
  
Perceptor was still babbling.  
  
Ratchet tapped the screen, accessing the message. A screen popped up, but there were no words on it. Not even an indication of who could have sent it.  
  
What in the...?  
  
Suddenly, his datapad started playing what was quite possibly the most sappiest love song in Cybertronian history. The whole pad rattled from the force of the volume, making Ratchet's audials whine.  
  
“What the frag?” Ratchet swore, fingers tapping over the device in an effort to shut off the noise. But he couldn't. The overrides weren't working, the power button refused to respond, and it wouldn't accept any new commands.  
  
“What in Primus' cranky camshafts is that racket?” Ultra Magnus bellowed, barely audible over the playing of the song.  
  
Ratchet honestly had no answer to give.  
  
Across the table from him, Jazz started cackling and beside him, Blaster broke into a cheery grin, swaying in tune with the music.  
  
“I think I've been hacked,” Ratchet said and put the datapad down, pushing it away from him with a single finger. The crooning duet started caterwauling about everlasting love and sparks being forever united.  
  
Beside him, Wheeljack guffawed, his indicators flashing a myriad of colors. “Let me see it.”  
  
“He will only irrefutably destroy it. Allow me to sever the loop,” Perceptor said, holding out a hand expectantly.  
  
“I don't care who does it,” Prowl said, raising his voice to be heard, door wings hiked high out of irritation. “Just shut it off.”  
  
As if sensing their intent, the music got even louder. Ratchet didn't know the datapad had such volume settings. At least it was approaching a crescendo. Ratchet could only hope that meant it was coming to an end.  
  
“Quickly,” Ultra Magnus insisted.  
  
Prime got a pained look on his face.  
  
Ratchet's audials started to ache. He made a decision, leaning toward Perceptor to hand over the offensive device.  
  
The song abruptly ended and the silence that followed seemed to ring in Ratchet's audials. But of course, that wasn't the end of the madness.  
  
On the screen of the datapad, a message scrolled across in large glyphs, one that was visible to every member of Autobot command seated at the table.  
  
 _From Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. You're our favorite medic._  
  
Ratchet felt his jaw drop. Were they glitched?  
  
“Oh, Ratchet,” Elita-One said with a smirk, propping her chin on her palm. “You've gotten the optics of some very determined mechs.”  
  
He shook his helm, turning off the datapad and then disconnecting the power conduit for good measure, just in case the twins had something else in mind. “It's a sparkling infatuation. They'll get over it.”  
  
“I'm not so sure, doc,” Blaster said with an obnoxious giggle, rubbing shoulders with his equally irreverent partner. “Besides, they're hardly younglings. Their majority was vorns ago.”  
  
The datapad disappeared into Ratchet's subspace. He was uncomfortably aware of the looks the entire Autobot command was giving him.  
  
“I thought this meeting was to discuss Perceptor's plan,” he reminded them. “Not to mention Megatron's recent strategy.  
  
Jazz leaned back in his chair, propping his legs up on the table. “But your love life is much more interestin',” he purred.  
  
Beside him, Blaster started laughing again, though he was doing his best to hide his mirth.  
  
Ratchet scowled.  
  
“As amusing as Ratchet's new suitors may be, I do have a tight schedule,” Red Alert announced, cutting through the room's thick amusement.  
  
Ratchet almost wanted to kiss him just for that.  
  
Thank Primus order was restored to the room with Red Alert's demand. Though Ratchet did not fail to catch both Prime's amused look and Ironhide's winked optic.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“I wonder if it worked.”  
  
Sunstreaker stared into the dim of their quarters, eying the glow of the control panel for their door. Just beyond it, he could hear the murmur and steps of passing mechs. He thought one of them might have been Smokescreen.  
  
“Sunny,” Sideswipe whined, poking him between two pieces of armor in his side. “I know you're still online.”  
  
“I was ignoring you,” Sunstreaker replied curtly, giving up on his effort to cycle down into recharge. He wasn't the least bit ready to defrag.  
  
“Well stop.”  
  
Sideswipe pressed against him more firmly, until Sunstreaker could feel the echoing pulse of his twin's spark through the thrum of his armor plating. One arm draped over Sunstreaker's side, tugging him back, armor creaking at the added pressure.  
  
“So?” Sideswipe prompted, his words vibrating directly into Sunstreaker's audial.  
  
“So what?”  
  
“Do you think it worked?”  
  
Sunstreaker stared harder at the pale green glow of the console. “How should I know? The program executed so he must have heard it.”  
  
“But did he like it?”  
  
It took great effort for Sunstreaker to in-vent and ex-vent without flipping over to throttle his twin. “I don't know.”  
  
Sideswipe's fingers tapped a nonsense rhythm on Sunstreaker's adductor panel. “I don't see how your plan is any better than mine. It's still going to annoy the frag out of him.”  
  
He jerked an elbow back, slamming against Sideswipe's chestplate to make him stop the annoying twitch. “It'll work,” Sunstreaker insisted. “Learn some patience, fragger.”  
  
“Don't have any,” Sideswipe retorted and pressed harder against Sunstreaker's back, the heat of his plating tangible. “I want him.” Static laced his vocals, the last syllable edged with a hungry purr.  
  
Sunstreaker could feel the need resonating across their bond. It pulsed in Sideswipe's energy field, his engine giving a low growl of desire.  
  
Sunstreaker's hands curled into fists, fighting back the need now stirring within him. Frag Sideswipe for leaving the bond open like that. “It's not like we can tackle him in Medbay Delta, Sides. Something tells me that'll impress him even less.”  
  
A low moan vibrated against Sunstreaker's audial, Sideswipe clutching him tighter, as if trying to crawl beneath Sunstreaker's plating.  
  
“Primus,” Sideswipe said with a groan. “That would at least be better than these stupid plans. My seals're aching.”  
  
“Should've let me do it then,” Sunstreaker retorted, not at all sympathetic. He refused to call it a sulk. After all, he'd let Sideswipe break _his_ seals.  
  
“It's not the same,” Sideswipe whined, though his hand stroked further down, lightly brushing Sunstreaker's ventral armor before circling his heated interface panel.  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics. “You just want someone to watch, screwy glitch.”  
  
Sideswipe's engine gave an audible, berth-vibrating rev at the thought. “That would be hot, too.” He pressed his hips against Sunstreaker's aft.  
  
“Stop it,” Sunstreaker demanded, reaching back and swatting blindly at his brother. He didn't want Sideswipe to get him revved up right now and it was getting difficult to ignore his twin's arousal as it threaded through their bond.  
  
“There's not a sympathetic strut in your whole frame,” Sideswipe said, tone edging toward a whine, but he backed off anyway, perhaps sensing the sheer annoyance in Sunstreaker's field.  
  
Sunstreaker offlined his optics, trying to let recharge sweep him away. He had an early patrol tomorrow and with Bluestreak of all mechs. The gunner was good on the field, but Primus that mech could talk.  
  
“I can be sympathetic when I want to be,” Sunstreaker retorted. “I just don't want to be right now. So recharge.”  
  
Sideswipe grumbled subvocally but Sunstreaker didn't spare the effort to dial up his audials or peek into their bond. He seriously wanted to recharge and luckily, Sideswipe finally shut up long enough to let Sunstreaker do so.  
  
After all, stage two would be enacted tomorrow.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
He really ought to relax like this more often. Not that relaxation was much of an option with the full-blown war, the never-ending stream of refugees, and the soldiers who were injured on and off the battlefield.  
  
“ _It's th' little things_ ,” Jazz had said when he barged into Ratchet's modestly sized quarters, Blaster on his heels. “ _We gotta remind ourselves what we're fightin' for. Doncha think_  
  
And well, the irreverent saboteur had a point.  
  
Now they were all crammed in here to the point that Jazz had given up on a chair and sprawled himself over both Blaster and Ironhide's laps, neither mech seemed to mind. Blaster had a rather possessive hand propped on Jazz's chestplate, while Ironhide had a curious grip on a gleaming thigh. Hedonists.  
  
Ratchet was by his lonesome, propped up in the only chair in his quarters, a cube of high grade in each hand and optics locked on the enticing view across the table from him. Wheeljack lounged on the floor, helm tilted on the armrest of Ratchet's chair, looking halfway to overcharged already. Lightweight.  
  
“Ya know, Ratch,” Ironhide said, gesturing to him with a cube. “I still got room on this knee if ya want in.” He grinned, optics brightening with overcharge.  
  
“No thanks,” Ratchet drawled. “I'm comfortable over here.”  
  
“Doc hasn't wanted to play in decaorns,” Jazz said, approaching a pout as he stretched his arms over his head, elongating his frame and making himself as enticing as possible. Not a difficult feat. “He's gotten as boring as Prowl.”  
  
Wheeljack laughed, indicators flashing rainbow bright. “Prowl can be fun when the situation warrants. I should tell you about this one time in Praxus...”  
  
“Not that old story again. You really need new material, 'Jack,” Ironhide said and took a long sip of his cube before grinning at the engineer. “I can help ya with that. See? Still gotta empty knee.”  
  
Wheeljack, the cheeky tease, chuckled. “Mmm. I'll think about it. You look like your hands are already full.”  
  
“Pssh. These two take care o' themselves,” Ironhide retorted, but his hand was inching closer to Jazz's interface panel, Ratchet noticed.  
  
He could practically smell the desire in his quarters. All four of his guests were radiating arousal and intent to interface. It was enough to drive a mech mad.  
  
“Hey!” Jazz exclaimed, nudging at Ironhide's chestplate with a pede. “I resemble that remark.” He tilted his hips just so, a nonverbal invitation.  
  
One, apparently, Ironhide accepted with relish.  
  
“Don't you dare,” Ratchet threatened, bestowing his famous glare upon the threesome occupying his couch. “Not in my quarters. And kindly remove your hand from my knee,” he added, directing his comment toward Wheeljack.  
  
His best friend grinned at him but removed said appendage.  
  
“Killjoy,” Blaster accused.  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. “I let you hedonists do whatever you want and my quarters will smell of scorched circuits and transfluid for a decaorn.”  
  
“Sounds to me like someone's not getting any,” Wheeljack commented, wobbling as he tilted his helm up to meet Ratchet's optics. “And why is that, I wonder.”  
  
Jazz lazily dipped a finger in Blaster's cube and brought it to his glossa. “It's certainly not fer lack of opportunity,” he said with a wet smack of his lipplates. Little attention-whore that he was, Jazz knew that all optics were on every move he made.  
  
Ratchet felt a little shiver dance down his spinal strut. It was an exercise in willpower to resist Jazz when he wanted to berth you. And Jazz and Blaster together? A mech had to have bearings of duryllium to ignore that.  
  
Ratchet didn't have bearings of duryllium.  
  
Luckily, temptation was resisted as someone chimed his door. Ratchet rose to his pedes, wobbling on unsteady limbs, and went to investigate. Whoever was out there hadn't pinged in to identify themselves.  
  
“Maybe Prowl finally decided to take us up on our offer,” Jazz said in a mock-whisper.  
  
Overcharged laughter bubbled through the room.  
  
Ratchet ignored all of them, keying his door open. It slid aside, revealing an empty hallway. Primus, not again.  
  
He looked down. There was a datapad sitting on the floor.  
  
Ratchet picked it up and went back into his quarters, powering on the device. There was a single document on it.  
  
 _Hello_! It said in bright, cheerful glyphs. _Do you like us? Check one!_  
  
It then gave him options: yes, no, maybe, or berth now.  
  
It was signed _Sideswipe and Sunstreaker_.  
  
Were they serious? Ratchet rolled his optics and returned to his chair, only for Wheeljack to lurch upward and snatch the datapad from his hands.  
  
“And what's this?” Wheeljack teased, twisting his body to escape Ratchet's angry swipe.  
  
“A stupid prank,” Ratchet retorted. “Give it back.”  
  
“Don't think so.” Wheeljack tossed the datapad toward Jazz's eager fingers.  
  
The saboteur scanned it in a flash and guffawed, eagerly passing it on. “Oh, that's rich!”  
  
Blaster read it next. He snickered, passing it to Ironhide, who laughed so loudly Ratchet's audials crackled.  
  
“Do tell, Ratchet,” Blaster prompted, lounging against the couch with amusement glittering his optics. “What is your answer?”  
  
Ratchet glared at all of them.  
  
“Mech, they've got it bad,” Ironhide said, dangling the datapad between his fingers. “You gonna break their sparks like that?”  
  
“Wrong. They want to add me to their roster. No more, no less,” Ratchet countered, snatching another cube of high grade. He wasn't nearly overcharged enough to deal with this.  
  
Wheeljack scratched at his battlemask. “I don't know. It seems like a lot of effort for a one off.”  
  
“You call that effort?” Ratchet asked.  
  
Jazz giggled, visor bright with overcharge. “Ya gotta give 'em points for tryin'.”  
  
“Still doesn't answer my question,” Blaster insisted, leaning down to nuzzle against Jazz's helm. “Intentions aside, would you berth the twins?”  
  
“Who wouldn't?” Ratchet slumped down in his chair. “I'm not celibate.”  
  
“And yet ya keep turning us down,” Blaster replied, hand smoothing enticingly over Jazz's chestplate, fondling a headlight. “We can't help but wonder why.”  
  
“Maybe I'm just not interested.”  
  
His quarters echoed with disbelieving guffaws. Not a single one of his friends believed him. Traitors.  
  
“You're not that old,” Ironhide said.  
  
Jazz reached over, toying with Blaster's cassette compartment. “Methinks the doc doesn't want to admit the truth.”  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. “And what truth would that be?”  
  
Wheeljack's hand landed on Ratchet's pede, stroking under an armor panel that was particularly sensitive and the engineer knew it. “That you want to frag them upside down and sideways,” he teased.  
  
Ratchet twitched his pede away, trying to quiet the coiling arousal within him. Oh, Wheeljack might be right. But that didn't mean he was going to do it. He didn't feel like becoming another tickmark on a conquest list.  
  
“Doc-bot wants to frag someone, that's for sure,” Jazz said with a languid stretch before he suddenly hopped up from his lazy sprawl across both Ironhide and Blaster. “But it don't look like he wants it to be either of us. Comin' partner?” He held out a hand to the communications officer.  
  
“Don't have to ask me twice, sweetspark.” Blaster grinned, wobbling as he grabbed Jazz's hand and let the smaller mech haul him to his pedes.  
  
They propped each other up, making no effort to hide the casual groping.  
  
Ironhide, too, rose to his pedes, effecting a fake display of fatigue. “Looks like you two need an escort back to yer berths. Lightweights.”  
  
“Why, 'Hide. You're such a gentlemech,” Jazz said with a giggle. Yes, a giggle. Of them all, he'd probably imbibed the most high grade.  
  
Ratchet watched as the three of them stumbled from his quarters, Ironhide with a mech on each arm and a proud expression curling his lipplates.  
  
“Ya know,” Wheeljack said, climbing to his pedes and finishing off the last of his cube. “I think I'll join them.”  
  
“Traitor,” Ratchet accused, but the engineer didn't miss the teasing in his tone either.  
  
Wheeljack waggled a finger at him. “I'd say it's more like I'm leaving you to your fantasies of those sexy-aft twins.”  
  
“Abandoning me to self-service then. Same difference,” Ratchet retorted, but he helped the wobbling engineer to his door anyway.  
  
“You had your chance.” Wheeljack stepped into the hallway, turning about in a wide circle as though trying to remember which direction he needed to go. “Don't say we didn't invite you. Cause we did.”  
  
“Yes, I remember.” Ratchet pointed to the right. “Blaster's quarters are that way. Have fun.”  
  
Wheeljack's indicators flashed an embarrassed pink at him. “I know that,” he huffed, and steered himself valiantly that direction, using the wall as a proper crutch.  
  
Ratchet chuckled and watched his dearest friend long enough to see him bang unceremoniously on Blaster's door and then get dragged inside by a black and white hand aka Jazz. He didn't envy them the mess come the next shift. Or the overcharge ache  
  
He went back into his quarters, let the door slide shut, and contemplated the minor bit of chaos his friends had left in their wake. Some spilled energon, furniture moved out of place, and oh yes, the datapad that Blaster had kindly left for him with Sideswipe's idea of a joke on it. Ratchet tossed it an askance look and left the slagged thing in the middle of his floor.  
  
He wasn't falling for it. Not for a single astrosecond.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“C'mon, Ratch. Please?”  
  
He chuckled, bending closer to examine that troublesome shoulder joint of Ironhide's. Poor mech was getting rusty in his old age. “It's a consequence of your own gluttony.”  
  
“Sadist,” Ironhide groused, his energy field roiling with discomfort. “You like seeing bots suffer.”  
  
Ratchet grinned, tossing one of his oldest, dearest friends a wry look. “Just the ones who deserve it. Make a fist.”  
  
“Can't. Hurts.”  
  
“Do it anyway, you sparkling,” Ratchet demanding, the blunt end of his tool tapping against bright red armor.  
  
As Ironhide obeyed, Ratchet watched the gears and hydraulics in his arm. One of them wasn't turning properly. It kept catching. He could see it now. An easy enough fix.  
  
“Can't ya spare just a little bit?” Ironhide asked again, putting on his most wheedling tone. Unfortunately, unlike Jazz, he hadn't perfected a pleading look that few mechs could resist.  
  
And Ratchet had a spark of stone anyway so he was immune to said looks.  
  
“Getting more than rusty, are you?” Ratchet teased, reaching for a small screwdriver on his tool tray. He'd need to take this whole panel off. “Or did the love bots wear you out that much?”  
  
Ironhide rolled his optics. “Insatiable fraggers. No wonder they aren't exclusive. They'd wear their interfacing parts to bits at this point.”  
  
“Wheeljack seems to have survived all right,” Ratchet observed, prying off said panel to get to the complicated workings beneath. If Ironhide didn't insist on being armed to the denta...  
  
“Yeah, well, he didn't stick around for the encore.” Ironhide flinched, helm swinging around to watch Ratchet work with interest. He was one of the few who actively enjoyed watching, many mechs were a bit squeamish to see their parts pulled out.  
  
Ratchet laughed and reached for some lubricant. Old mech was dry as the rust sea. “Still stalking Tracks?”  
  
“You called it.”  
  
Ratchet shook his helm. “I always said he's got a few screws loose in that helm of his.” Chasing after Tracks? Didn't Wheeljack have better taste than that?  
  
Not that there was anything wrong with Tracks, per se, but Ratchet couldn't see the appeal. He didn't have a scientific strut anywhere in his frame, and any mech that obsessed with being perfectly clean and polished had to have some kind of issue. Then again, Sunstreaker was just as tedious about his paint job.  
  
Ironhide laughed. “No more'n the rest of us.”  
  
“I'm perfectly sane, I'll have you know,” Ratchet retorted. “It's the rest of you that are glitched.”  
  
“Heh. So you say.”  
  
The door to Medbay Delta slid open with an announcing ping, prompting both Ratchet and his patient to look at the visitor.  
  
“Supply delivery,” Bumblebee said with a little wave, gesturing to the rolling cart behind him stacked with boxes. Smokescreen had apparently been drafted for the heavy work as he was pushing said cart.  
  
“It's about time. I requisitioned that stuff orns ago.” Ratchet counted the boxes with a critical optic. He was definitely missing something. There weren't nearly enough containers to account for all that he needed.  
  
“Times are rough, Ratchet,” Smokescreen replied, wings twitching as he gave the heavy load one last push and dropped his hands from the lift. “From what Prowl told me, this is all he could get.”  
  
Ratchet expelled air from his vents in exasperation. “This whole planet's going to the Pits,” he grumbled subvocally but took the datapad from Bumblebee, quickly cycling through the list of supplies he'd been granted.  
  
Slag. Not a single sheaf of silicate. At this rate, they were going to have to start cannibalizing the empty frames of the offline, a task Ratchet did not want.  
  
“We're in a war, what do you expect?” Bumblebee asked with a wry quirk of his lipplates that completely belied his cheerful exterior.  
  
As if Ratchet needed the reminder. He tucked the datapad into his subspace and stalked toward the crates. Ironhide could wait a moment. Not like his arm was going anywhere and the only pain he was in was a result of his overindulgence.  
  
Something was stacked on the top of his supplies. “What's this?” Ratchet asked, reaching for the wide, flat object.  
  
He pulled it down. It vaguely resembled a vid frame, but it was much larger than the ones Ratchet was used to seeing. More like a transportable vidscreen, but too unwieldy.  
  
“I don't know,” Bumblebee said, rising on the tip of his pedes to try and see over Ratchet's shoulder, a hopeless endeavor.  
  
He then, instead, ducked under Ratchet's arm, peering at the vid frame. “It wasn't there before. Smokescreen?”  
  
The Praxian's face was perfectly bland of emotion – a warning sign if Ratchet ever saw one. Smokescreen only looked like that when he was plotting something. “It looks like a vid frame to me.”  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “Yes, I can see that. But why was it on my supplies?”  
  
“Maybe it's for you,” Smokescreen suggested, in all bright opticked innocence, doorwings relaxed and at ease.  
  
Ratchet didn't trust the schemer for a single nanoklik. Rumor had it that Smokescreen had become chummy with Sideswipe.  
  
“Maybe,” Ratchet grunted and tucked the datapad into his subspace. “All right. Your delivery is done and I have a patient waiting. The two of you can scram.” He flicked his hand at them to illustrate his point.  
  
“Aww, but I want to know what it is,” Bumblebee pouted, shoulders slumping and disappointment radiating through his energy field.  
  
Ratchet wasn't falling for that either.  
  
Smokescreen, however, scrammed. His shoulders were shaking on his way out the door so Ratchet could only assume he knew something Bumblebee didn't.  
  
“It's none of your business. Shoo.” Ratchet's expression turned decidedly evil as the yellow bot didn't budge. “Unless you're needing another physical? I can certainly arrange for that if you pre--”  
  
“Bye, Ratch!”  
  
Blurr would have been proud of the speed Bumblebee used to exit the medbay. Little mech frag near left tread marks on the floor.  
  
“You're an evil mech. Spawn of Unicron himself,” Ironhide declared, though the amusement in his tone was tangible.  
  
Ratchet turned back toward his patient, chuckling. “Unicron wouldn't have me and you know it. Now let me see that arm again.”  
  
He reached; Ironhide evaded.  
  
Ratchet cocked an orbital ridge.  
  
Ironhide gave him a spark-stirring smile.  
  
“I wanna know what it is,” he said, leveling Ratchet with a firm look. “It'll help an old mech's aching processor.”  
  
“Oh, is that your excuse is it?” Ratchet retorted, but pulled the vid frame out of his subspace nonetheless. It had taken some creative maneuvering to get the large thing there in the first place.  
  
Ironhide grinned.  
  
Amused, Ratchet powered up the device, bracing himself for... well, anything at this point. He had his suspicions who had sent the slagged thing though he would have thought Sunstreaker to have more taste. The whole frame had been attacked by glue and glittery bits of stone and metal, all cheap but designed to be sparkly and optic-catching. The sort of look that would captivate a sparkling.  
  
For an adult mech, it just looked gaudy.  
  
A picture was the first to load, as Ratchet would expect, and then the speakers started crackling the noise of sound recorded in low quality. A voice began to chant as cheerful words danced the screen, accompanied by painfully drawn renditions of what Ratchet could only assume were meant to be himself and the twins.  
  
 _“Sideswipe is red, Sunny is yellow--”_  
  
A second voice interrupted with a growl, _“Call me that again and you'll be a dead fellow.”_  
  
Unperturbed, the first voice started over, _“Sideswipe is red, Streaker is gold. Don't worry Ratchet, we don't think you're old.”_  
  
Ratchet's jaw dropped. He heard a sound from Ironhide that suspiciously resembled a chortle.  
  
 _“I'm not gold!”_ The second voice hissed, one Ratchet quickly identified as Sunstreaker which left Sideswipe to be the irreverent singer. Out of tune, no less.  
  
 _“Then what do you call it?”_ Sideswipe huffed.  
  
 _“Metallic citrine.”_  
  
A long moment of silence followed by, “ _Nothing rhymes with that!”  
  
“Your point?”  
  
“Argh!”_  
  
Ratchet flicked the off switch but, like his datapad a decaorn earlier, the vid frame refused to shut down. Ironhide was still laughing and now the animations on screen were turning decidedly more lewd. And preposterous. Sideswipe – Ratchet assumed it was him – had drawn stick figures for Primus' sake.  
  
And then Sideswipe continued.  
  
 _“Sideswipe is Red. Streaker is vain. We think you're hot. So come out and play.”_  
  
Sunstreaker, not unexpectedly, was quite affronted. _“That doesn't rhyme, you glitch. And I'm not vain!”  
  
“You so are!”_ There was a noise of shifting plating. _“What's that? A scratch?”  
  
“No, there isn't!”_ Sunstreaker roared and it was immediately followed by the sound of scuffling before the transmission cut itself off.  
  
Silence filled the medbay.  
  
Ratchet honestly didn't know what to think. He was still staring at the stick-figure drawings copulating on the screen.  
  
Minute clangs of trembling plating echoed in the silence. Ratchet didn't have to look to know it was Ironhide, whose faceplate was contorting from the effort of restraining his amusement. On the screen, the red and yellow stick figures were happily molesting the white one with medic's crosses on it's shoulder.  
  
Ironhide's vocalizer hummed.  
  
Ratchet cut him off. “Not. One. Word.”  
  
“But--” Small snickers escaped the warrior.  
  
“Ironhide, so help me Primus, I will reformat you into a cleaning drone!”  
  
His indignant words seemed to break some kind of spell for they sent Ironhide into a rolling guffaw, doubled over on his perch on the berth and struggling to draw air through his vents.  
  
“Primus!” Ironhide gasped out, gales of laughter echoing pointedly in the medbay. “Think they're serious now?”  
  
Ratchet prodded at the off switch, relieved when the vid frame finally shut off, erasing from his immediate view the animated images lustfully attacking each other in several impossible combinations. Cybertronian anatomy just didn't bend that way.  
  
“That's it,” Ratchet growled, pushing the vid frame out of sight and half-contemplating destroying the slagged thing, save that they were so low on resources that it would be a waste. “I'm taking care of this slagging mess here and now.”  
  
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker wanted an answer? Fine. They were going to get one. Then they could all get this foolishness out of their systems and life, for Ratchet, could return to normal. Or whatever constituted it considering this fragged war.  
  
“What about my arm?” Ironhide asked as Ratchet stalked toward the doorway.  
  
A quick comm took care of that issue. Besides, served Ironhide right for being an annoying slagger.  
  
“First Aid's on his way,” Ratchet replied, waving a hand over his shoulder. “And if you ask nicely enough, maybe he'll give you a remedy.”  
  
Ironhide's cursing followed him out the door. Ratchet snickered to himself before grabbing dignity and draping it over his shoulders. It was time to see what exactly Sideswipe and Sunstreaker wanted. Ratchet was done playing games. It was time for action.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Quiet and stillness did not a happy Sideswipe make.  
  
The only thing worse would be monitor duty and Sideswipe hadn't done anything as of late to warrant that sort of punishment.  
  
So he sat down on the edge of their over-large berth, shared as it was, and proceeded to dismantle, clean, and reassemble his blaster. The silence in their quarters was stifling. All he could hear was the sound of Sunstreaker's subvocal muttering and his obsessive polishing. Over and over with the slagged chamois.  
  
Sideswipe's thoughts bounced around like a misguided pair of bolt-bats. They should be using this off-shift for something fun. Not sitting here in a sulking sort of quiet. Pfft.  
  
“Do you think--”  
  
“Not. Another. Word.”  
  
Well. Someone was in a scrap-poor mood today. Then again, his special sunspot wasn't generally the brightest optic in the box either.  
  
Sideswipe huffed air through his vents. “Your plans didn't work any better than mine,” he reminded his sulking twin.  
  
“You're the one with less creativity than a glitchmouse,” Sunstreaker retorted, angling his frame in front of the mirror to inspect it for obvious signs of imperfections.  
  
A fight was brewing. Good. At least it would end the monotony of this boring off-shift. Sideswipe was two nano-kliks from storming out of their quarters and interfacing the next bot he saw. Unless it was Prowl. Or Ironhide. Or, Primus forbid, _Gears_.  
  
Sideswipe scowled, shoving his blaster aside with a pede. “At least I can rhyme.”  
  
Sunstreaker glared at him through the mirror. “That's not even my point.”  
  
Sideswipe's engine growled in warning. Sunstreaker put down his chamois, fingers of one hand curling into a joint-creaking clench.  
  
Someone pinged their door for entrance, cutting a thick swath through the tension, though Sideswipe didn't dare move his optics away from his twin.  
  
The pinging grew insistent. Sunstreaker didn't budge.  
  
Sideswipe threw himself off the berth, stomping toward the door and slamming his palm against the panel to open it. The door slid aside with a rickety _ker-splunct_ and Sideswipe scowled, fully prepared to see either Smokescreen or Bluestreak, or even Jazz with another invite to one of his infamous orgies.  
  
Who he saw, however, was wholly unexpected.  
  
Sideswipe wiped away his glare as quick as a turbofox. “Uh, hello, Ratchet. What's up?” he said, trying to effect nonchalance.  
  
He could feel Sunstreaker tensing with curiosity, could easily imagine his brother peering over his shoulder into the hallway beyond. Could it be? Had their plans worked?  
  
Ratchet lifted an orbital ridge and a hand as a well, holding a datapad between two fingers. “Look familiar?”  
  
“I don't know,” Sideswipe replied with a giddy lilt. Frag yeah, it looked familiar but he needed to play this calm. No need to let Ratchet know how ridiculously pleased he was. “Is it gonna mean brig time?”  
  
“Depends. Are you going to let me in?”  
  
Sideswipe fought to keep his composure, while inside he was squeaking in pure, sparkling joy. He stepped aside, gesturing for Ratchet to enter.  
  
“Sorry for the mess. I try but Sunny likes to leave his stuff just lying around.”  
  
“I do not!” His twin huffed in offended outrage.  
  
Sideswipe shot him a look, a warning, but that didn't stop Sunstreaker's optics from flashing and promising dire retribution.  
  
Ratchet came inside, pointedly looking around. Sideswipe, unsure what to think, hovered by the door while Sunstreaker finally turned away from the mirror.  
  
“Cozy,” Ratchet commented, taking in the small space that they'd adapted for sharing, including the over-large berth.  
  
Sideswipe lifted and dropped his shoulders. “It's home,” he said, and never one to abide by patience, he continued, “So...”  
  
“This is for you,” Ratchet interrupted, half-turning to hand Sideswipe a datapad, his lipplates quirking with a very intriguing grin. “Though my answer is a little late.”  
  
Sideswipe took the datapad, keying it on and finding the little note he and Sunstreaker had sent to Ratchet. Except this one had the medic's response on it.  
  
He'd picked _Berth. Now._  
  
Sideswipe's jaw dropped.  
  
Ratchet smirked. “You got my attention,” he said, spreading his hands, optics glancing between both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. “Now what?”  
  
Something squirmed through Sideswipe's internals, which he refused to name nervousness, and he plastered a grin on his lipplates. He tossed the datapad over his shoulder, hearing it clatter to the ground.  
  
“Now we frag you senseless,” Sideswipe said with a purr and closed the distance between himself and Ratchet in two quick steps.  
  
Their energy fields collided first, Ratchet's thick with exasperation and interest and lust, buzzing strongly against Sideswipe's own growing desire and the tiniest threads of unease he was struggling to conceal.  
  
Sideswipe reached out with greedy hands, grabbing Ratchet and pulling him close, their mouths crashing together with no real skill. His engine revved loudly, heat flooding his frame, helping to chase away the uncertainty. He and Sunstreaker had a reputation to uphold, even if it was largely untrue.  
  
He wanted Ratchet, sure enough. He didn't want to examine all the reasons why. What he wanted was to feel Ratchet against him, feel Ratchet do other things, and he didn't care if Sunny was standing there watching, or joined in. Sideswipe _wanted_.  
  
Ratchet made a noise against his mouth, his arms coming up and wrapping around Sideswipe, crushing the shorter mech against his frame. Sideswipe could feel the strength of Ratchet's plating, the warmth of his frame. He groaned, glossa tangling with Ratchet's, tasting the edge of midgrade Ratchet must have consumed earlier.  
  
Sideswipe's hands dangled at his sides, useless, and it occurred to him that he ought to do some touching of his own. He grasped Ratchet's hips, feeling bright red plating beneath his fingers, and then the back of his hands bumped against another mech.  
  
Sunstreaker had come up behind Ratchet, pressing himself against the medic, bolder than Sideswipe as his hands slipped between their bodies, fingers splayed across Ratchet's abdominal array. His hips clanged against Ratchet's backplate noisily.  
  
Ratchet broke off the kiss, his exvents caressing Sideswipe's plating. “You two don't waste any time, do you?” he asked, but Sideswipe was pretty sure his tone spelled nothing but amusement.  
  
Sideswipe grinned, heat cascading southward, making his interface array feel uncomfortably confined. “Why wait?”  
  
He crashed their mouths together again, but misaimed, his denta knocking against Ratchet's lower lipplate with a disconcerting grate of metal on metal.  
  
Ratchet's engine rumbled as he broke off the kiss, a smirk curling his mouth. “Easy,” the medic said, a shiver running visibly across his plating as Sunstreaker pressed harder against his back. “Biting's good and all, but not without a little foreplay.”  
  
Mortification made Sideswipe's faceplates flush with heat. He ignored the way Sunstreaker snickered at him across their bond.  
  
Sideswipe planted a disarming smile on his face. “You strike me as a mech who can take it though,” he purred.  
  
“And here I am without my toys.” Ratchet's glossa slipped out, sliding over the slight knick in his lipplate, lapping up the few drops of energon. “I guess my hands will have to do.”  
  
Sunstreaker made an inarticulate noise, pressing against Ratchet like he was trying to crawl under the medic's plating. Sideswipe sympathized. There was an itch in his armor, something he desperately needed scratched, and he was tired of waiting for the right opportunity. He wanted and he wanted _now_.  
  
It was time that he and Sunstreaker kissed their accidental virginity goodbye.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
Pressed between two frontliners, both already hot and hungry, their engines thrumming wildly, Ratchet felt his own desire spike to unbelievable proportions. Their energy fields pressed against him, insistent and demanding, with such hunger that Ratchet found himself a bit surprised. Surely two mechs who interfaced as much as these two couldn't be that hard up for a spiking.  
  
Or maybe it was just his lucky orn.  
  
Sure, Sideswipe's kisses were more clumsy than skilled, but Ratchet chalked that up to eagerness. And there was a weird twitch in Sunstreaker's energy field, but Sunstreaker wasn't exactly the most stable mech psychologically in the first place.  
  
Speaking of which...  
  
One of Ratchet's hands took to the task of exploring Sideswipe's seams. The other reached behind him, grabbing Sunstreaker as Ratchet turned his helm, and pulling the yellow twin into a kiss. Sunstreaker was less eager than his brother, his kiss hesitant, as though he wished to be led rather than taking charge. Either of which were fine to Ratchet.  
  
His systems hummed with rising desire, the vibrations traveling through his frame and rattling over his plating. He half-expected to be swept off his pedes already. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's reputation preceded them.  
  
Sideswipe groped at him, fingers plunging into a transformation seam in Ratchet's chassis, grasping at sensitive wires with less finesse than Ratchet would have expected. In fact, it wasn't very pleasant but Ratchet held his glossa. Overeager fingers perhaps.  
  
Sunstreaker groaned into the kiss, pressing harder against Ratchet's backplates, buckling some of the lighter metal. His hips rocked against Ratchet's, his hands grasping but doing little else, almost like he didn't know what to do with them.  
  
Sideswipe made a noise, more like a whimper, a mech ignored, and Ratchet's hands got back to exploring. Sweeping over the planes of red armor, finding all the little niches and sensors that would get Sideswipe's engines revving. Multi-tiered processing made it easier to divide his attention between the two of them.  
  
Ratchet's hand found Sideswipe's interfacing panel burning beneath his fingers, exuding enough heat to melt the icy caps of some distant moon. Sideswipe moaned, hips twitching toward Ratchet's fingers, hands clutching at Ratchet's armor. His helm rested on Ratchet's shoulder, ex-vents stuttered and off-kilter.  
  
“Berth?” Ratchet suggested, and surprised himself with the static lacing his words.  
  
“Yes,” Sideswipe replied, dragging out the last syllable, his energy field crashing over Ratchet's, grasping at him with eager tendrils.  
  
Behind Ratchet, Sunstreaker mumbled something equally agreeable, his hands just as grabby though with less force than his twin's.  
  
They shuffled toward the berth with less grace than Ratchet would have expected of two mechs as skilled as these. Sideswipe had his hands hooked in Ratchet's collar plating like he feared the medic would up and vanish on him. His optics were bright, electric blue, plating thrumming with heat, and he stumbled against the berth.  
  
Ratchet, with no where left to place his pedes, nearly tumbled down on top of Sideswipe, but quickly caught himself on the edge of the berth. A hungry mouth sought his own, Sideswipe rubbing against him in arrhythmic motions, like he wasn't sure what he wanted but was going to beg for it anyway.  
  
“You two have been quite the pain in my aft these past few decaorns,” Ratchet said, though he peppered nips across Sideswipe's neck column, taking the sting out of his words.  
  
“How else were we going to get your attention?” Sunstreaker asked, his husky tones vibrating in Ratchet's audials.  
  
An uncomfortable pressure built behind Ratchet's interface panel. He pressed closer to Sideswipe, the red twin's knees parting as he pulled Ratchet between them, legs locking around Ratchet's pelvic assembly, knocking against Sunstreaker still plastered to Ratchet's backplate like he was magnetically attached.  
  
“Normal mechs invite others out for energon,” Ratchet said, but he was hardly bothered, not when he had Sideswipe squirming beneath him and Sunstreaker making great effort o map the lines of his chassis.  
  
“Boring,” Sideswipe retorted, hands clutching. “Come on, Ratchet. Show us what you got.”  
  
A chuckle rumbled up from the depths of Ratchet's tanks. He palmed Sideswipe's interface panel, the heat searing at carefully calibrated sensors in his fingers.  
  
“Then open for me,” Ratchet purred, mouthing at an audial receptor, the sound of Sideswipe's erratic ex-vents rumbling through his internals. He dragged his fingers down, ghosting past Sideswipe's spike panel (strangely restrained despite the red twin's obvious arousal) to tease around the edge of Sideswipe's valve.  
  
Sideswipe moaned loud enough to rattle the walls and bucked up against Ratchet. A very startled Ratchet.  
  
“You...” Confusion made Ratchet stutter, made all of his processing power grind to a halt. “You're still sealed.”  
  
He didn't even have to look to know that the notched latch was still present on Sideswipe's valve cover. Ratchet had been a medic long enough to be able to tell such a thing from feel alone. No wonder Sideswipe had yet to extend his spike. Crazy fragger probably still had that seal, too!  
  
Sideswipe's grip on Ratchet's armor tightened. He flinched under Ratchet's stare and then planted a wavery grin on his lips. “Oh. Did I forget to mention that?”  
  
A bevy of emotions – not all of them pleasant – radiated from Ratchet's energy field. A touch of anger. Some annoyance. A hefty dose of arousal. A dash of wonder.  
  
“Is that going to be a problem?” Sunstreaker demanded, his fingers pressing into Ratchet's armor as well, as though intending to mark.  
  
Ratchet reset his vocalizer a few times, just to give himself a moment to craft a more proper reply. “No. But I would wager there are a dozen or so mechs you could have picked other than me.” Like, oh, the hundred that rumors had suggested.  
  
“Don't care about them,” Sideswipe retorted stubbornly. “Wanted you. Or are you going to back out now?” There was a touch of a whine in his tone, giving credit to the eager and strained whirl of his energy field, which was desperate to quell the heat storming through his frame.  
  
It would be cruel to leave either of them like this, honestly.  
  
Ratchet's answer was to flick his finger over the latch that prevented Sideswipe's valve from sliding open, despite his arousal. Metal pinged against metal, a light chime barely louder than the sound of their cooling fans. It had a pronounced effect on Sideswipe though, the red frontliner arching his hips toward Ratchet, encouraging more.  
  
“If you want it, I'll give it,” Ratchet replied, leaning closer over the red frontliner, their lips in tantalizing proximity. “More than you can take.”  
  
Sideswipe's optics burned pale blue, his energy field lashing out and snagging Ratchet, demanding. “Do it,” he all but growled, knees pressing against Ratchet's side armor.  
  
Ratchet grasped the tiny latch between two fingers, lowering his helm, meeting Sidewipe's optics. He exvented noisily, putting pressure on the latch, knowing Sideswipe couldn't so much as feel him as know what he was doing. Ratchet's free hand grasped Sideswipe's hip, burying fingers in a transformation seam, stroking quivering hydraulics.  
  
Sideswipe stared back, unflinching, challenging.  
  
Somewhere behind Ratchet, Sunstreaker made a low, moaning sound, his energy field flared with erotic tension.  
  
Ratchet smirked.  
  
And pulled.  
  
The latch snapped off with hardly any force necessary, little more than a small nub of metal binding the nearly invisible seam. There weren't any sensors in the latch either, so the whole seal-breaking was painless. Symbolic more than anything.  
  
Immediately thereafter, Sideswipe's valve snicked open with an eager click.  
  
“You want to keep it?” Ratchet asked, surprising himself with how rough his vocalizer sounded. He actually had to reboot it. “Some mechs do.” He held up the tiny nub of metal, a slightly darker red than Sideswipe's base paint.  
  
“I swear to Primus that if you don't stop teasing me I'm going to do something unpleasant!” Sideswipe threatened, though it lacked heat, escaping on a breathy ex-vent.  
  
Ratchet chuckled, flicking the tiny piece of metal over his shoulder where it pinged off Sunstreaker's chassis before dropping to the floor. His hand returned to Sideswipe's valve, tracing the narrow outline of heated metal. Sideswipe made another impatient noise, fingers grasping at Ratchet's arms, trying to pull him closer.  
  
“Primus,” Sunstreaker groaned, arms wrapped around Ratchet, pelvic array pushing insistently at Ratchet's backplate.  
  
Ratchet circled the rim of Sideswipe's valve again before ever so slowly pressing a single finger past the first, cycling ring. The twins moaned in unison. Could one feel what happened to the other? Now was hardly the time to ask.  
  
Ratchet stowed the curiosity away for later and focused on the task at hand, part of his processor struggling to keep his own arousal in check. His ventilations had already doubled, heat racing through his frame.  
  
Sideswipe was already wet, soaking rather, with lubricant, trickles spilling out and onto Ratchet's finger. He added another with quick succession, stroking the flexing walls of Sideswipe's valve, just to watch the red frontliner twitch beneath him. Ratchet's ventilations hitched, his optics cycled wide, to drink in every panting twitch of armor.  
  
Sunstreaker pressed harder against him, the thrumming of his engine vibrating through Ratchet's frame. One hand dragged down Ratchet's abdominal array and played at his interface, the clumsy brush of curious fingers breaking past Ratchet's control. His spike snapped free, pushing eagerly against the golden hand.  
  
“C'mon Ratchet,” Sideswipe moaned, fingers digging into Ratchet's arms, a few catching on seams, pressing on cables beneath. “I'm ready.”  
  
Ratchet's legs wobbled, helm dipping. “How would you know?” he retorted, but he had to admit, considering the way Sideswipe's energy field lashed at him with pulses of need, want, now, there was no point in delaying.  
  
He would have plenty of time for teasing later.  
  
Oh, Primus. Ratchet was already thinking of the next time.  
  
Sunstreaker's fingers worked an intoxicating path over Ratchet's spike, smearing the transfluid seeping through the miniscule pores in his unit. Ratchet shivered, hips jutting into Sunstreaker's hands, the clang of metal on metal echoing in their quarters.  
  
“Don't forget about me,” Sunstreaker said, his vocals low and rumbling, echoing with promise.  
  
“How could I?” Ratchet retorted, fingers plunging into Sideswipe's valve, feeling the calipers cycle down on him, trying to pull him deeper, toward sensors only a spike could reach.  
  
“You'll get your turn!” Sideswipe panted, knees pressing against Ratchet's sides with a _skritch_ of annoyed plating. “Let go of his spike, frag it!”  
  
It would have been hilarious if Ratchet's processor hadn't been thoroughly drenched by lust.  
  
Sunstreaker ex-vented hotly against Ratchet's back. “Maybe I want to keep it,” he all but purred, fingers gripping tighter, giving the lightest of squeezes.  
  
“Primus,” Ratchet groaned. “Don't you two dare start fighting.” On a side note, he added, “And if you keep it, then I can't use it either.”  
  
He felt, more than saw, the shudder that raced through Sunstreaker's frame. “I like the sound of that, too.”  
  
No, Ratchet did not miss the edge of possession in Sunstreaker's tone. Oh, frag. He'd have to handle that. Later though.  
  
Sideswipe's left pede kicked out, nicking his brother in the side. “Sunny!”  
  
“Don't call me that!”  
  
Fingers tightened. Ratchet absolutely did not yelp (though he probably did) and said, to the pit with it.  
  
He pushed his hips forward, aiming as best as he could toward Sideswipe's valve, the head of his spike just nudging against the inviting opening, Sunstreaker's hand still attached like an octobot.  
  
Sideswipe's retort vanished on the edge of a whine, his fingers scrambling at Ratchet's frame, desperate to pull him closer. Sunstreaker made an inarticulate noise, his fingers sliding to the base of Ratchet's spike, giving him more room to thrust. And the wave of threatening violence in their energy field shifted in a dizzying flash to pure lust.  
  
“More!” Sideswipe demanded.  
  
“Give him more,” Sunstreaker urged.  
  
“You two are going to be the death of me,” Ratchet snapped, but he obliged, pushing with tantalizing slowness into the tight confines of Sideswipe's valve.  
  
There was nothing quite like the sensation of an unused valve. Eventually, all mechs and femmes got personal, adding and removing and experimenting with various modifications until no two valves (or spikes for that matter) were alike.  
  
Ratchet almost offlined his optics, save that he wanted to watch Sideswipe. The red frontliner's face had completely laxed with pleasure, optics still glimmering, mouth parted, glossa sweeping over his lipplates. His fingers were flexing a rhythm in their grip, his vents whining with overheat.  
  
Why, oh why, hadn't he given in sooner?  
  
Behind him, Sunstreaker moaned. His fingers finally trailed away from Ratchet's spike, transfluid sticky hand shifting to grip Ratchet's hips.  
  
“All of it,” Sideswipe said, his vocalizer glitching with edges of static. “Come on, I can take it.”  
  
Ratchet couldn't have denied Sideswipe. He complied, sliding completely into Sideswipe's valve with a moan that echoed in triplicate, from all three of them. Sideswipe's valve flexed around his spike, the red frontliner's legs wobbling where they gripped Ratchet's sides.  
  
Ratchet's innards boiled with heat. He paused, trying to regain control, electricity already sparking along his frame. He should have way more restraint than this, but something about these two seemed to strip it away from him.  
  
“More,” Sunstreaker said, moaning like he was the one getting spiked. “Oh, Primus. Give him more.”  
  
“Give me a klik!” Ratchet snapped, refusing to admit that he was halfway to overload already.  
  
“We've waited too long already,” Sideswipe said, optics half-lidded and sultry.  
  
The _snickt_ of an interfacing panel clicking open filled the room from behind Ratchet. “Don't want to wait anymore,” Sunstreaker added and Ratchet felt the unmistakable press of a heated spike against the back of his legs.  
  
Wait. What? He thought Sunstreaker was still sealed? Or at least, he assumed since Sideswipe had been and halfway still was. Ratchet would have to do something about that, too. Later.  
  
Primus. Later again. Frag it.  
  
“Fine,” Ratchet growled, determined to get all of his questions answered later. “I don't want to hear any complaints then.”  
  
Sideswipe grinned from audial to audial. “We'll see.”  
  
Impudent brat.  
  
Ratchet leaned down, one hand gripping Sideswipe's hip, the other curling around the red mech's helm, pulling him in for a kiss. As their glossas tangled, he pulled out achingly slow, only to slide back in with a firmer thrust. It was just enough to rock Sideswipe on the berth, making him moan into the kiss.  
  
He could hear both twins' cooling fans going full force, one of them with a noisy rattle he'd have to inspect later. Sunstreaker pulled back, just a smidge, his hands making short work of mapping Ratchet's frame. His spike pushed against Ratchet from behind, leaving smears of transfluid on the back of Ratchet's thighs and aft.  
  
“I want you,” Sunstreaker said. “You're mine when you're through with him.”  
  
Where was that hesitation from earlier? Scattered to the four dimensions obviously. Ratchet shuddered at the promise in Sunstreaker's vocals, thrusting hard into Sideswipe, spike raking across a sensory node at the back of the red mech's valve.  
  
Sideswipe gasped into the kiss, tilting his helm back to break it off, fingers returning to their helpless clutch on Ratchet's arms.  
  
“Again,” he demanded. “Harder.”  
  
Slag. If Ratchet had known it was going to be like this, he would have chugged a cube of mid-grade before he showed up at their door.  
  
He picked up the pace, thrusting harder and faster into Sideswipe's valve, feeling his own overload building up inside of him. Sideswipe keened, pulling himself toward Ratchet with every thrust, as though trying to take Ratchet's spike deeper than was physically possible. His cooling fans worked overtime, but couldn't combat the heat rising up from his frame, or the electricity that crawled out from his circuits.  
  
Behind Ratchet, Sunstreaker moaned, low and staticky, his energy field frazzled with his own arousal. Again, Ratchet wondered if the twins shared sensation, but then that curiosity washed away in the wake of pure ecstasy. His rhythm increased again, slamming into Sideswipe with echoes of metal on metal.  
  
Sideswipe shouted, wordless, hips rising into each thrust. “More,” he begged, the rough nature of his vocalizations traveling straight to Ratchet's audials and driving him to the cusp of overload. “More.”  
  
Ratchet sucked in a harsh intake and drove himself into Sideswipe, leaning harder over the red frontliner, the change in angle causing him to rake over sensors previously only brushed.  
  
Sideswipe's vocalizations devolved into a litany of please, please, please and Ratchet hoped that he could hold out long enough to overload the red twin first. Sunstreaker pushed against him from behind, spike a tantalizing slide against Ratchet's plating. Heat spiraled through Ratchet, pulsing through his frame, his energy field a frantic whirl of lust and need.  
  
Sideswipe twitched and writhed beneath him, valve cycling down on Ratchet's spike on each thrust. Lubricant slicked their interfaces, dripping to the berth below.  
  
The world narrowed down to just the two of them, the delicious slide of his spike into Sideswipe and the sound of Sideswipe babbling for _more_ , and _harder_ , and _faster_ until overload finally crashed over the twin like a magnetic burst. His energy field flared out, flooding over Ratchet and pulling him in with electric need.  
  
He held on for a few more thrusts before the rippling of Sideswipe's valve became too much to resist. He overloaded hard, spilling transfluid into Sideswipe's valve, the smell of scorched circuits filling the air. He grabbed the back of Sideswipe's helm again, pulling the red twin into a kiss that tangled their glossa as they cycled back down from overload.  
  
“Frag,” Sideswipe moaned into the kiss, hands weakly clutching at Ratchet's arms, his valve twitching around Ratchet's depressurizing spike.  
  
A light chuckle escaped Ratchet's vocalizer. “I've made you speechless, clearly a moment for the history pads.”  
  
“Did you forget about me?” Sunstreaker demanded, his hands sliding up Ratchet's dorsal plating as he rocked his hips against Ratchet's backplate.  
  
“And you called me impatient,” Sideswipe muttered though he flashed his twin a triumphant, if not exhausted, grin. “Give a mech a chance to cycle down, Sunny. Good grief.”  
  
Sunstreaker's energy field hit the both of them with a blast of helpless need that all but scoured the paint off Ratchet's plating. He groaned, spike seeking to repressurize, and felt Sideswipe shiver beneath him.  
  
“Or you could just do that,” Ratchet said and carefully withdrew from Sideswipe, only half noting the trickled mix of lubricant and transfluid that followed.  
  
He braced himself on the berth, hands to either side of Sideswipe. “I'm all yours,” Ratchet said, shifting his weight with intention to turn around.  
  
But Sunstreaker's hands on his hips stopped him before he could so much as twist twenty degrees. Sunstreaker yanked, pulling Ratchet back, aft colliding with Sunstreaker's scorching panel and equally eager spike.  
  
Ratchet scrambled to stay upright, gripping the edge of the berth as the change in the position left him almost doubled over. Logically, he supposed it did make sense. He had a good helm on both the twins in height, which made logistics a bit of a puzzle. Still, Sunstreaker's approach could use a bit more work.  
  
The unsealed nature of his spike aside, perhaps Sunstreaker was no more experienced in the berth than his brother.  
  
“Sunny, don't break him!” Sideswipe said, heat still wafting off his frame as he struggled to sit up, legs still hanging off the side of the berth.  
  
“Stop calling me that,” Sunstreaker growled.  
  
“And I'm not fragile, Sideswipe,” Ratchet retorted. Besides, he'd gotten his balance back now that he'd shifted his pedes.  
  
He also had a perfect view of Sideswipe's interface, soaked valve and sealed spike. He shifted his hands, placing them on the outside of Sideswipe's thighs, his thumbs brushing red armor still hot to the touch.  
  
Sunstreaker's hands caressed the plating on Ratchet's hips as though contemplating his next move. “My turn,” he murmured, his vocalization a rumbling purr that promised another overload and so much more.  
  
Ratchet shivered.  
  
He really should have had that second cube.  
  
“I know you're not fragile,” Sideswipe said, with an enticing little pout that would have made Jazz proud. “But sometimes my glitched brother doesn't know his own strength.”  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. “And if I had a problem with it, don't you think I'd say so?”  
  
“You're talking about me like I'm not here,” Sunstreaker said, hands groping at Ratchet's aft as though mapping every micron of the red plating. “Am I boring you?”  
  
“Sunny hates to be ignored,” Sideswipe mock-whispered, hand reaching down to caress Ratchet's helm, fingers sliding over his chevron. A shiver wracked Ratchet's backstrut at the enticing sensation.  
  
“Really? I never would have guessed,” Ratchet drawled and turned his helm, looking over his shoulder.  
  
Sunstreaker's hand left his aft, only to trail three fingers down the length of his interface panel, bypassing his half-pressurized spike and teasing at his valve cover.  
  
Ratchet's ventilations hitched. Lubricant was already starting to pool in his valve from sheer anticipation. He'd just overloaded, but he honestly couldn't tell with the way heat was pouring back into his frame.  
  
“You going to let me in?” Sunstreaker asked, his fingers tracing the barely present seam of Ratchet's valve.  
  
He heaved in a harsh intake, panel snapping open with hardly a thought. A sharp retort died in his vocalizer when Sunstreaker immediately pushed a finger into his valve, already slick with lubricant.  
  
Ratchet shook his helm, sliding his hands down Sideswipe's thighs. “Don't need that.”  
  
“Maybe I want to do it anyway,” Sunstreaker retorted, slowly exploring with just the one finger, igniting the first ring of sensors in Ratchet's valve with heat.  
  
Sideswipe chuckled hoarsely at the both of them.  
  
“Is he always this contrary?” Ratchet asked, more rhetorical than anything, but neither mech took it as such.  
  
“Yeah,” Sideswipe said at the same time Sunstreaker answered, “No.”  
  
Ratchet could feel them glaring over his helm. Self-preservation kicked in. He bent his helm, swiping his glossa over Sideswipe's dripping valve, tasting both his own transfluid and Sideswipe's lubricant at the same time.  
  
The red mech yelped, hips arching upward, chasing after Ratchet's retreating mouth. “Warn a mech!”  
  
“Or I could see about this other seal. What says you?” Ratchet said, shifting his glossa to the heated panel, flicking it over the small latch.  
  
Sideswipe groaned, his optics blown wide and bright. “You'll hear no protests from me.”  
  
Ratchet smirked, lowering his helm again.  
  
Which was the very moment that Sunstreaker chose to withdraw his fingers and push into Ratchet in one smooth thrust. An embarrassing noise escaped Ratchet's vocalizer as he rocked forward, olfactory sensor bumping against Sideswipe's spike panel. His valve cycled down, tightening on Sunstreaker's spike, which was as unaugmented as any untouched interface was likely to be.  
  
Not that it didn't feel fragging good. Because it did.  
  
“Don't forget about me,” Sunstreaker said, but static laced his tone, his fingers flexing on Ratchet's hips, a tangible shiver racing over his plating. Heat emanated against his frame like an oven against Ratchet's backplate.  
  
“Wouldn't,” Ratchet insisted and lowered his helm again, swiping his glossa over Sideswipe's sealed spike, loving the sound of swift intake that Sideswipe made.  
  
The red frontliner's hips arched up eagerly toward Ratchet's mouth, arms scrambling to prop himself up so that he could watch. He could feel Sunstreaker's optics on him as well, watching as Ratchet mouthed Sideswipe's spike seal, gripping it between his denta.  
  
Just like the valve seal, this was little more than a tiny latch of metal, easily broken and without a flicker of pain. Cybertronians were all about the symbolism, Ratchet supposed.  
  
He raised his optics, flexed his valve around Sunstreaker's spike, and pulled off the latch with one quick move. Sideswipe's intakes hitched, the cover sliding aside and his spike emerging, already half-pressurized and seeping at the tip. At the same moment, Sunstreaker pushed into Ratchet, striking a sensory node that made him moan against Sideswipe's spike.  
  
Ratchet's glossa swiped over the sensitive tip. Sideswipe made an inarticulate noise, hips arching toward Ratchet's mouth with eager abandon.  
  
“More,” Sideswipe pleaded.  
  
Ratchet obliged, sucking on Sideswipe's spike as it fully pressurized. Sunstreaker chose that very moment to withdraw and thrust back into Ratchet, achingly slow, as though determined to brush each and every sensor node inside his valve. Ratchet shivered, the calipers of his valve rippling around Sunstreaker's spike.  
  
Sideswipe's spike was completely smooth, lacking all of the defining ridges, bumps, whorls or other personal characteristics that more experienced mechs eventually added to their interfacing equipment. The plating slid easily along Ratchet's glossa, the taste of transfluid sickly sweet on his chemoreceptors. But it was all worth it, just to hear Sideswipe making those noises and to feel the red twin shuddering beneath him.  
  
Sunstreaker snarled, suddenly pulling out of Ratchet's valve, which left him scrambling to catch his balance again.  
  
“Sunny, what--”  
  
Ratchet's efforts were futile as Sunstreaker's hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around so that they were facing. Ratchet's spark skipped a pulse at the naked need in Sunstreaker's optics, briefly glimpsed before Sunstreaker yanked Ratchet into a thought-stealing kiss.  
  
Ratchet's hands waved wildly before landing on Sunstreaker's hips, trying to keep himself from toppling backward at the abrupt change to his balance. Not that it mattered because it seemed backward was where Sunstreaker wanted him, pushing him toward Sideswipe until Ratchet's backplate hit the edge of the berth and red-plated arms curled around him from behind.  
  
Ratchet moaned into the kiss as Sunstreaker's hands skated down to cup his aft, hefting him up off his pedes. No small feat considering that Ratchet weighed more than either of them with all of his redundant systems. Then again, maybe Sideswipe helped.  
  
His aft hit the berth, right between Sideswipe's legs, and then Sunstreaker was on him again, mouth hungry and searching, eager to taste. One arm wrapped around Ratchet's left leg, keeping it hitched on Sunstreaker's hip. The other hand cupped Ratchet's aft, tilting him for perfect access, making it easy for Sunstreaker to push back into his valve with a strut-melting slide.  
  
Half of Ratchet's weight leaned back against Sideswipe, who tucked his chin over Ratchet's shoulder and watched as Sunstreaker thrust ever-so-slowly into Ratchet.  
  
“Frag,” Sideswipe moaned, hips making narrow circles against Ratchet's backplate. “That's so hot.”  
  
Ratchet could only agree, his frame rumbling with arousal, his hands clutching at Sunstreaker, finding transformation seams and mercilessly attacking them.  
  
Sunstreaker jerked and shoved the last few microns into Ratchet, his spike fully seated in the medic's valve. They moaned in unison, Ratchet's valve cycling down, gripping Sunstreaker's spike with ripples of current. It had been far, far too long since Ratchet had last interfaced and he'd almost forgotten the feel of a spike in his valve.  
  
One of Sideswipe's arms curled around Ratchet's waist, hand dipping down to trail fingers over Ratchet's extended spike. His cooling fans roared, energy field lashing out as the pleasure struck with lightning-quick snaps through his system.  
  
“Primus,” Sunstreaker moaned, breaking away from the kiss to nuzzle into Ratchet's throat, mouth and glossa making short work of the sensitive cables.  
  
Pinned between the two frontliners, Ratchet's mobility was limited, nevertheless he managed to roll his hips, prompting Sunstreaker to move. He could feel the trembling in the golden frame, Sunstreaker already frustratingly close to overload. And he wouldn't break, frag it!  
  
“Harder, Sunny,” Sideswipe urged, his vocalizer soft and staticky. “He wants it.” He sounded halfway to overload himself.  
  
“Frag yes, I do!” Ratchet agreed.  
  
Sunstreaker made a low growl but obeyed nonetheless, tightening his grip on Ratchet and picking up the pace. His spike slammed into Ratchet, scraping over every heightened sensor and lighting it with electric heat.  
  
An embarrassing noise that Ratchet refused to designate a whimper but probably was one anyway escaped his vocalizer. He arched his hips toward Sunstreaker, eager for each forceful thrust, pushing his frame back against Sideswipe, who was in turn grinding against his aft, making tight, frustrated sounds.  
  
Sideswipe purred into Ratchet's audial, a litany of dirty, filthy commentary that sounded straight out of a dirty vidfile.  
  
“I can't wait until it's my turn again,” Sideswipe murmured, glossa snaking out to trace the rounded lines of Ratchet's audials. “If your valve is anything like your mouth, I'll bet you feel so slagging good. I want you to frag me again, too. Hard and fast. Make me feel it for orns and orns.”  
  
“Primus, Sideswipe!” Ratchet exclaimed, insides giving a wavery lurch of heat, his processor supplying images for every one of Sideswipe's dirty whispers.  
  
The red twin chuckled darkly. “I want to see you bend Sunstreaker over, too. I've been saying he's in need of a good, hard fragging.”  
  
Ratchet's vocalizer glitched.  
  
Sunstreaker gave his brother a scowl, though the effect was wasted by the way his energy field wavered with desire and oncoming overload.  
  
“You just wait,” Sunstreaker said, leaning forward, until his chassis brushed directly against Ratchet's, spark energies behind both their chestplates thrumming with interest. But his optics were for his twin alone. “You'll get yours.”  
  
Sunstreaker's hand left Ratchet's hip and snapped out, grabbing Sideswipe's helm. He jerked their mouths together, glossa taking with reckless abandon.  
  
Ratchet's optics spiraled outward, betraying his surprise. This whole time, the two of them hardly touched and Ratchet assumed they simply hadn't considered one another as an interface partner. But he was wrong. Oh, so wrong. And the noise of need and capitulation Sideswipe made traveled straight to Ratchet's audials and right into his pleasure center.  
  
The sight of Sunstreaker claiming his twin sent a rush of need across Ratchet's circuits, roaring over his processor, and he clamped down on Sunstreaker's spike. He overloaded hard, frame jerking between the two frontliners, vocalizer releasing a staticky scream that he would stridently deny later.  
  
His cooling fans thundered, struggling to expel the heat wracking his frame, but trapped between the twins, the heat had nowhere to go.  
  
Sunstreaker began to thrust in earnest now, shoving Ratchet back onto Sideswipe with loud clangs of metal and metal, loud enough surely to be heard in the halls and even a few corridors over. Hard enough that paint transfers were inevitable.  
  
Ratchet arched, frame oversensitive, valve even more so, as Sunstreaker's spike pounded at his sensors, building them up to another charge with almost frightening speed. Sunstreaker abandoned consuming Sideswipe's mouth in favor of claiming Ratchet's, who had no thoughts left but to moan and take every pleasure-filled klik of it.  
  
His third overload of the evening took him by surprise, pleasure streaking so fast across his circuits it almost hurt, charge racing through sensors already sensitive from the previous two overloads. Ratchet's ventilations gasped for fresh air, his frame twitching imperceptibly between the press of two frontliners.  
  
Sunstreaker purred into the kiss, his grip on Ratchet's leg tightening, harsh enough to leave an impression of three of his fingers behind. He thrust harder, pushing through the spasming rings of Ratchet's valve, until his own overload stormed through him. Sunstreaker howled, a purely organic sound and slammed his pelvis against Ratchet's, transfluid coating the inside of Ratchet's valve.  
  
“So fragging hot,” Sideswipe moaned and overloaded in split-klik timing with his twin, striping Ratchet's aft with his transfluid.  
  
Ratchet collapsed against Sideswipe, wrung dry, limbs limp and exhausted. Sunstreaker tilted forward, laying his helm on Ratchet's chestplate as his spike slipped out of Ratchet's valve with a trickle of their mingled fluids.  
  
They would all three of them be needing a trip to the washracks with an immediate scrubbing of the berth to follow. And Ratchet would not be surprised if Sunstreaker started griping about his paint job soon.  
  
Sideswipe huffed, hands limply petting Ratchet's plating before he suddenly dropped backward as though he simply couldn't remain upright anymore.  
  
Like a perilously piled stack of datapads, Ratchet yelped and clanged as his support vanished and he dropped back against Sideswipe hard. Sunstreaker's balance shifted as well and he, too, collapsed. Only he fell the other direction, legs wobbly and refusing to lock into place.  
  
He hit the floor, clipping his chin on the tip of Ratchet's pede as the medic flailed in a desperate attempt to keep his balance.  
  
The clatter of metal on metal was embarrassingly loud in the room, even over the sound of three sets of cooling fans doing their best to dispel heat.  
  
For a long moment, none of them said a thing.  
  
Ratchet was mortified he'd kicked Sunstreaker in the faceplate, and just a bit afraid of the retribution from the vain mech.  
  
Sideswipe was shaking from what Ratchet could either assume was hilarity or equal anxiety.  
  
Sunstreaker's energy field said it all. He was stunned, angry, and too wrapped up in a post-overload haze to do anything about any of it.  
  
He did, however, lift a hand, examining his chin. “... I think you dented me.”  
  
Sideswipe broke into laughter, both arms wrapping around Ratchet's asprawl frame as the red twin shook with amusement.  
  
Ratchet shook his helm. “It's an easy fix, Sunstreaker,” he replied, and the annoyance that should have edged his tone wasn't present. “I'm sorry, by the way. Blame Sideswipe.”  
  
“I generally do.” Sunstreaker levered himself up off the floor, a scowl twisting his lipplates, but he still had the happy glow of overload.  
  
He was right. There was a scuff mark on his chin, though to be fair it was a tiny thing. A bare swipe of red paint.  
  
Ratchet tried to wriggle free of Sideswipe's grasp but the red twin was acting like an octobot. He jerked an elbow backward. “Let me go, Sideswipe. Primus!”  
  
The arms tightened. “No.”  
  
Sunstreaker, still a tad wobbly, lurched forward, his hands planting themselves to either side of Ratchet's uncomfortably sprawled frame. “Are you going to leave?”  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “My backstrut is killing me, I need to visit a washrack and I could've used a cube two overloads ago. But no. I'm not leaving. Happy?”  
  
Sunstreaker reached into his subspace, pulling out a glimmering cube of mid-grade. “Ecstatic,” he drawled, and handed it over. “Let him go, Sides.”  
  
“But he's my new favorite cuddle doll,” Sideswipe declared with a theatrical exvent before he unwound his arms and Ratchet was able to scramble free.  
  
He slid his pedes to the floor, and then nearly hit the deck when his knees wobbled. Sunstreaker quickly grabbed his arm, keeping him upright. Ratchet supposed he ought to be off-balance, after three overloads on such a little charge.  
  
He popped open the cube, downing half of it one gulp, and managed to stand on his own. He watched as Sideswipe sat up, one hand reaching down and exploring the sticky mess between his legs. His panels were still open, not uncommon for an inexperienced mech.  
  
Ratchet looked. Yes, Sunstreaker's panels were open as well.  
  
Which reminded him...  
  
Ratchet sent the command to close his own panels then knocked back the rest of the cube. He flicked it away into nothingness and took a long, slow in-vent. Then he stared at both twins with a gimlet optic.  
  
“So,” he declared, causing Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to stare back at him. “This is what all the pranks were about.”  
  
“They weren't pranks. Well, most of them anyway,” Sideswipe said, crossing his arms. “They were supposed to be romantic.”  
  
It took all Ratchet had not to burst into laughter. Was Sideswipe serious? Romantic? Judging by the look on their faces, Ratchet thought yes. Hmm. Making fun of them probably wouldn't be wise.  
  
“I see,” he said with a remarkably neutral tone, and gestured toward their interface panels. “You might want to close your panels, by the way. It's a small subroutine in your central processor right next to the one that opens them.”  
  
He waited until they did the search, found the line of code, and activated it. Twin snicks filled the room.  
  
“Good,” Ratchet said and eyed them again, wondering just how to proceed from here. “So...”  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optis. “Yes, we were untouched. Yes, we chose you. It's a long story how those rumors got around and no, we aren't interested in sharing it right now.”  
  
Sideswipe slung an arm over his brother's shoulder, an easygoing grin on his lips. “What my short-tempered twin is trying to say is, who cares about the details. We like you. We assume you like us. How about seeing where we go from here?”  
  
“Sunstreaker wasn't sealed,” Ratchet pointed out. “Why?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Sideswipe demanded, his arm falling from his brother's shoulder, his casual stance shifting into something defensive.  
  
Ratchet ex-vented softly. “It does if someone has hurt you.”  
  
It would explain the rumors, he supposed. And some of Sunstreaker's standoffishness. If someone had either taken advantage of them or forced them, Ratchet wanted to know. Both for their sake and so he could punish the piece of Pit slag.  
  
“Then you can recharge easy tonight, Ratch,” Sideswipe said, visibly relaxing as his plating loosened from his frame. “No one hurt either of us.”  
  
“I made Sideswipe do it,” Sunstreaker added and tossed his brother an annoyed look. “He insisted on waiting for someone else though.”  
  
Ratchet sensed this was a point of contention between them.  
  
“That's not all we wanted from you,” Sideswipe was quick to assure. “Unless that's all you want from us...?”  
  
Ratchet honestly wasn't sure what he wanted, but he fought the urge to relax his hydraulics and ex-vent noisily again.  
  
“How about a wash and some energon first?” Ratchet suggested. Also, it might be a good idea for him to check in on Ironhide.  
  
He had no worries about First Aid's ability to fix the old mech's arm, but there was no telling what rumors Ironhide was already spreading. It was best that Ratchet do some quick damage control.  
  
“Yeah. Sure.” Sideswipe couldn't hide the disappointment in his tone, though he tried to cover it up with a cheerful grin.  
  
Sunstreaker said nothing which was a bit worrisome on Ratchet's part.  
  
He shooed them toward the door but peered out first, making sure that no nosy bots were lurking outside the twins quarters. He wasn't embarrassed, per se, but this was the sort of thing that started rumors.  
  
Some orn, Ratchet was going to learn the reason behind their sordid reputation.  
  
But first, the washracks.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
The washracks instigated round two. Or would it count as three? Were they supposed to number them according to overloads or change in location?  
  
Sideswipe could hardly ask. It seemed a little crude. Well, he could save the query for poking a surprisingly knowledgeable Bluestreak later. Mech could talk and talk about the craziest things.  
  
Besides, he had no interest in pausing their activities just to ask a question. Watching Ratchet take Sunstreaker hard and fast against the wall of the washracks was an image that would fuel Sideswipe's recharge fantasies for many vorns to come. Hearing Sunstreaker demand more and harder made Sideswipe's energy-strapped and overloaded systems try to weakly cycle up for another round.  
  
Primus! He would honestly be surprised if there were any fluids left in his system! For an old mech, Ratchet had stamina. He was outlasting both of them!  
  
Sideswipe absently palmed his valve as he slumped against the wall, little strokes of his fingers sending soft shudders through his frame. He couldn't seem to cycle up some arousal however, content to enjoy the sensation while he watched Ratchet frag golden smears of paint against the washrack walls.  
  
Not an unpleasant sight. In fact, Sideswipe took a few image captures. For, um, commemoration of this auspicious occasion.  
  
A spiraling cry of pleasure echoed in the washracks as Sunstreaker shook with overload, beautiful in his ecstasy, but a definite exhaustion in his frazzled energy field. Ratchet growled, a sound that would be wholly arousing if Sideswipe had the energy to cycle up, and followed Sunstreaker over, slamming Sunstreaker against the wall with a final thrust.  
  
Their cooling fans whirred in the air, the racks spilling water down on the both of them and turning to steam against their heated armor. The noises of them kissing could clearly be heard and Sideswipe frowned.  
  
He pushed himself to his pedes, moisture gathering on his armor as well. If they didn't get out of here soon, they'd all start to rust. “Oye. Don't forget about me. Over here. By myself. Taking care of myself. It's a tragedy, if you ask me.”  
  
Ratchet pulled back, allowing Sunstreaker's pede to drop down to the floor for balance, and tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “We invited you to join, lazy aft.”  
  
Sideswipe offered up a half-grin. “Maybe I liked the show.”  
  
“Of course you did,” Sunstreaker said with an offended noise. “I was in it.”  
  
Ah, Sunny. Your arrogance is why we love you. Sideswipe said as much across their bond, and then staggered toward Ratchet, draping himself on one-half of the medic's frame to steal a kiss. Ratchet didn't seem to mind, returning the kiss with interest though less fervor than he'd shown for most of the past half-orn.  
  
Huh. Maybe they were finally wearing the bot down.  
  
“Enough,” Ratchet muttered against Sideswipe's lipplates. “Wash. Energon. In that order.”  
  
Sideswipe knocked his forehelm against Ratchet's shoulder and promptly ducked himself back under the spray for a quick rinse. His fingers were sticky with lubricant, after all, and his interface panel could use yet another wash. Sunstreaker, unsurprisingly, was already attacking himself with a soapy rag.  
  
Sideswipe didn't bother to pretend he wasn't watching as Ratchet gave himself another rinse (his third of the evening considering their recent pattern of wash-get revved up-get dirty-wash again). Thank Primus for Chief Medic locking codes that kept out unwanted optics. Though there were probably some annoyed mechs out there anxious to get in and wash off daily acquired grit.  
  
“And after energon?” Sideswipe asked, a hopeful note to his vocals that didn't belong considering the tired state of his systems. Then again, a cube of energon might be the cure for all that ails him.  
  
“We'll see,” Ratchet said.  
  
Hmm. That wasn't promising.  
  
Sideswipe traded a glance with Sunstreaker, who had suddenly reverted back to moody, one-word answers. Great.  
  
They ran through the dryers with a burst of super-heated air, but only Sunstreaker took the time to go after all the picky spots with a chamois. Ratchet headed for the door with a quickness to his pace that didn't speak well of their future. And Sideswipe hadn't realized, up until now, that he wanted a future.  
  
A long, awkward silence settled.  
  
Ratchet keyed open the door, and it slid open to reveal a startled Jazz in the midst of attempting to hack the lock. Apparently, both 'do not disburb' and 'locked by command' meant nothing to the saboteur.  
  
“Well,” Jazz said with a lazy grin as he tucked away his hacking tools and pointedly swept a gaze over Ratchet from helm to pede. “That explains why I couldn't get in.”  
  
Sideswipe perched himself at Ratchet's side, looking at the third in command with nothing short of annoyance. “Because we didn't want you to.” Yeah, slightly insubordinate but he didn't really like the look Jazz was giving Ratchet either. He already had a bond, frag it. Jazz needed to keep his lusty visor to himself.  
  
Jazz shook his helm, inviting himself into the washracks as Ratchet and Sideswipe stepped outside the door, only to pause in the hallway, awaiting the meticulous Sunstreaker. As they passed, Sideswipe caught a strong whiff of transfluid and scorched circuits, the unmistakable reek of overload. That, matched with the blatant streaks of two different shades of red pretty much explained where Jazz was coming from. And he still had the energy to eye Ratchet?  
  
Primus!  
  
“Ya could have invited me,” Jazz said with a wave of his hand. “Hey, Sunny. Nice shine.”  
  
Normal circumstances would have prompted at least a small smile in appreciation of the compliment. What Jazz received instead was a growl and a glare fierce enough to sear paint. Sunstreaker furthered his point by plastering himself against Ratchet's side like he'd become another set of limbs for Ratchet, energy field radiating irritation.  
  
Sideswipe winced.  
  
Ratchet, unsurprisingly, was not amused. “Stop that,” he chastised, the back of his hand snapping against Sunstreaker's arm.  
  
“Then again,” Jazz said with a light chuckle as he backed toward one of the stalls, “it looks like Ratchet has his hands more than full.”  
  
“Very,” Sunstreaker grunted, back to his one-word stoicism, and to everyone's surprise save Sideswipe's, grabbed Ratchet by the arm to haul him down the corridor.  
  
This... was not going to be pretty. Ratchet was already protesting and Sideswipe could see the medic groping at his subspace, no doubt for his favorite wrench.  
  
Sideswipe tossed Jazz something like an apologetic look, not that the saboteur seemed to care one way or the another considering the amusement writ into his features, and chased after his rapidly exiting twin and the medic being dragged along for the ride.  
  
“Could we save the violence for the privacy of our quarters? Please?” Sideswipe asked, gaze darting to Red Alert's many, many cameras.  
  
He wasn't a shy mech by any means and Sideswipe loved a good laugh like anyone else, even sometimes at his own expense. It was, of course, part of his duty to keep morale up around here. If they were all worrying about his pranks, then they weren't locked in their processors with fear over dying at the end of some Decepticon blaster.  
  
But that didn't mean Sideswipe wanted his business aired for all and sundry. This had the potential to stop being funny and start being serious.  
  
It was unsettling how quickly this whole thing had shifted from an orn of sexy times into something that had Sunstreaker growling with possessiveness.  
  
The twins' quarters were much closer than the medic's wing so this was where Sunstreaker took them, still pulling an increasingly furious Ratchet and a Sideswipe who was more and more convinced he didn't dare come between them.  
  
His decision proved wise as the building altercation exploded the very moment they were behind closed doors and Ratchet jerked his arm free of Sunstreaker's grip with more strength than either of the twins considered him capable.  
  
“What the frag do you think you're doing?” Ratchet hollered and Sideswipe made himself very, very busy by digging out a few cubes of energon he and Sunstreaker had stashed around their room.  
  
Old habits and all. Hard to break them. When you spent a good portion of your existence hoarding whatever energon you could find, it was kind of hard to shake the habit.  
  
Sunstreaker glared, mulish, arms crossed over his chestplate. “Making a point.”  
  
Ratchet's left hand, his wrench-wielding hand, clenched into a fist. “A point? Jazz is a commanding officer! You can't speak to him like that!”  
  
“I could say the same for him,” Sunstreaker returned without a hint of self-reproach.  
  
“Jazz is a flirt. Every one knows this. Pit, I'm pretty sure the Decepticons know it,” Ratchet railed, arms flailing, energy field a wild swirl of annoyance and exasperation and just a tiny hint of flattery. Though maybe Sideswipe imagined the last bit.  
  
He crept on the perimeter of their argument, handing over cubes of midgrade and noting, with some amusement, that both participants took them without so much as breaking stride.  
  
“No excuse,” Sunstreaker said. “He can keep his flirting and his comments and his hands to himself.”  
  
“That's beside the point!” Ratchet's vocalizer crackled warningly. “You have no claim on me.”  
  
Sunstreaker flinched, but held his ground, his optics shifting to a flat spectrum of blue that didn't bode well. In fact, Sideswipe knew that shade a bit too well.  
  
He eased himself between the two volatile mechs. “Clearly, a few wires have been crossed,” he said, wondering if the Pit had frozen over. When was Sideswipe supposed to be the rational one in any situation? “Some miscommunication may have occurred.”  
  
Two pairs of angry optics focused on him then. He could feel their fury like a burr against his plating, energy fields blasting at him with accusations as effective as words.  
  
Ratchet harrumphed, but guilt started a wavery venture into his energy field nonetheless. “Maybe,” he conceded, “a conversation needs to occur.”  
  
“Then talk,” Sunstreaker said, his tone far too hostile.  
  
Sideswipe nudged him across the bond, reminding him of the cube in his grasp, and was gratified with Sunstreaker took the hint and started to drink. Ratchet, too, finally noticed the energon and partook.  
  
Silence followed. Ratchet shifted uneasily on his pedes. Sideswipe wavered between them, unsure what to do next, and Sunstreaker stared into his cube as though it held the key to all existence.  
  
Sideswipe realized, with unfortunate clarity, that if anyone was going to address recent events, it would have to be him. Sunstreaker was stubborn, Ratchet more so, and now the anger had devolved into awkward pretending that they hadn't been arguing and Sideswipe would rather return to the helpless lust thank-you-very-much.  
  
“So,” Sideswipe said, loud enough that Sunstreaker actually startled. “We like you. You like us, or at least your spike does.” He ignored the hiss of outrage Sunstreaker sent over their bond at his irreverent comment. “Where do we go from here?” He directed his words, of course, to Ratchet, who also twitched a little at Sideswipe's comment.  
  
The medic knocked back the rest of his energon and dismissed the cube. “My spike, as you so elegantly put it, does not make decisions for the rest of me,” Ratchet said dryly. “You have an uncanny ability to crawl beneath a mech's plating and make yourselves a home.”  
  
“We're just that loveable,” Sideswipe replied with a sage nod.  
  
Honestly, he'd heard Prowl say just the same thing. Of course, at the time he was calling them the single most insubordinate, obstinate and annoying pair of glitches the tactician had ever had the misfortune of disciplining.  
  
“Regardless, I don't think either of you are ready for anything resembling a commitment, and frankly, neither am I,” Ratchet said, and fidgeted a bit more. “I was under the initial impression – wrongly I might add – that you intended nothing more than a quick interface.”  
  
In other words, Ratchet had no idea what bucket of complications he'd busted open when he'd taken the twins to berth. Fair enough. They had kind of sprung the whole “guess what, we're sealed!” on him.  
  
Though, truth be told, not even Sideswipe had realized that they would develop an attachment to Ratchet. They should have seen it coming.  
  
Sideswipe snuck a glance at his brother. Sunstreaker's expression had completely closed off and Sideswipe just knew, without having to check, what his twin was thinking.  
  
 _Ratchet's not like her! He didn't even know!_ Sideswipe sent across their bond, and knew he'd struck gold when his twin's shields immediately snapped up, blocking any further communication.  
  
“What makes you think we're not ready?” Sideswipe asked, trying to keep his tone light while half his attention remained on battering at the blocks Sunstreaker had put up.  
  
Ratchet made a noise of aggravation. “You're young. You're attractive. Why would you tie yourself down to the first old mech you see?”  
  
“You underestimate yourself.”  
  
 _Come on, Sunny. Let me in!_  
  
The wordless response Sideswipe got might as well have been a slap to the face. Especially when Sunstreaker took the ragged edges of his energy field and drew it tight to his frame, closing himself off completely.  
  
Frag it all to the Pits. Sideswipe let out a frustrated ex-vent.  
  
“Am I missing something?”  
  
Sideswipe winced but kept his glare focused on his brother. “Just Sunny being a glitch is all. Nothing apart from the usual.”  
  
He heard, more than saw, Ratchet shift closer to both of them. “Why?”  
  
“Because--”  
  
“Sideswipe!” Sunstreaker shot him a look of pure fury, warning radiating from his frame.  
  
He huffed, crossing his arms and turning back toward Ratchet. “Look. We aren't asking for a bond or anything. We just want to know if you'd be interested in repeating the experience.”  
  
Ratchet's optics shifted briefly toward Sunstreaker, whose plating was clamping even tighter to his frame. “He seems to have other ideas about what you want.”  
  
“He's a possessive glitch. He doesn't even like to share me.” Sideswipe shrugged, and felt a moment of gratification when Sunstreaker dropped the blocks long enough to assault him with a flurry of indignant griping.  
  
Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. “Whatever you say.” His optics danced between them. “How about we do this then? No promises, no decisions, just open-ended see where it goes and take it from here?”  
  
Sideswipe inclined his helm. “Yeah. I think we can live with that.” Sunstreaker, on the other hand, made a noise of grudging approval.  
  
“Good.” Ratchet vented out a heavy rush of relief. “Now that's settled, I hear a berth calling my designation.”  
  
“Or,” Sideswipe said, deftly sliding between the medic and the door, though he'd move if Ratchet really wanted to leave, “You could stay here and save yourself the trip.”  
  
“I'll give you a repaint,” Sunstreaker added. “Least I can do.”  
  
Ratchet made a noise that Sideswipe couldn't quite identify. “You don't have to bribe me. I'll stay.”  
  
Sideswipe grinned, and also felt the triumph from Sunstreaker through their bond.  
  
 _See?_ Sideswipe said. T _old you my plans would work._  
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics.  
  


**Epilogue**

  
  
“So I hear you've taken up with the twins?”  
  
Ratchet, to his credit, did not startle though the voice was unexpected in the midst of his counting. “Jazz, is there ever going to be a time where you are not elbows deep in my personal affairs?”  
  
The saboteur lounged against the door frame of the supply closet. “Nope,” he said cheerily, visor flashing with amusement. “Especially not if it means me 'n Blaster are losing the chance to play with our favorite medic.”  
  
“You're not,” Ratchet said, half-absently as he returned to his counting. “Being that there was never a chance in the first place.”  
  
“Ya wound me, Ratch. Right to th' spark.”  
  
He rolled his optics. “You've got playmates galore, Jazz. Lacking one cranky medic is hardly going to put a crimp in your interfacing schedule.”  
  
“So it's like that, huh?”  
  
Ratchet turned back toward Jazz at the mischievous tone in the saboteur's vocals. “I'm not sure what you mean.” He was even less certain he liked the glint in Jazz's visor.  
  
Jazz laughed, rich and enticing to any other mech. “Mmm. I'll bet you don't.” He turned, flicking his fingers at Ratchet. “Worry not. I'll let everyone else know yer off the market.”  
  
He was gone, in a flash of speed that only Jazz could pull off, leaving Ratchet to both gape and glare at the third-in-command's retreating aft.  
  
Off the market? Hardly.  
  
Ratchet harrumphed and went back to his counting.  
  
Just because he'd spent the last decaorn in Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's berth didn't mean a fragged thing.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“It would appear congratulations are in order?”  
  
Sideswipe groaned, shoulders slumping. He'd kind of hoped Smokescreen had forgotten all about their little deal.  
  
“Something like that,” Sideswipe drawled as he slowed down enough for Smokescreen to catch up with him, his free hand fishing around in his subspace for what he owed the gambler.  
  
Smokescreen grinned, energy field radiating success and glee, though probably more for his own sake than Sideswipe's. “What's that supposed to mean? Did you or did you not manage to tame the Hatchet?”  
  
“One doesn't tame the Hatchet,” Sideswipe retorted, pulling out both a fistful of credits and the cube of ultra-condensed, practically explosive high grade that he owed Smokescreen for both the mech's suggestions and his help. “One can only lure him in for a little while.”  
  
Smokescreen arched an orbital ridge even as he happily accepted the payment with no small amount of glee at the sight of the energon. “A little while? Mech, that excuse would have worked a diun ago. Rumor has it that the CMO's quarters have grown dusty in his absence.”  
  
“He never used them in the first place.”  
  
“Yeah? And he doesn't use the berth in Medbay Delta anymore either.” Smokescreen smirked, knocking shoulders with Sideswipe. “So again I say, congratulations.”  
  
Sideswipe snorted. “Premature celebration, Smokescreen. Quit trying to get an idea of the stakes either. I'm not fueling your betting rings.”  
  
“Aww. And here I was hoping to make wads of credit.” Smokescreen shook his helm, only to admire the hue of the energon Sideswipe had given him. “Well, this will do for now. Pleasure doing business with you.”  
  
Sideswipe made a wordless noise of assent, watching Smokescreen take off down an adjoining hallway, already calling out a greeting to Inferno.  
  
Congratulations? Hmph. Clearly Smokescreen had never met Ratchet.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“Why Ratchet?”  
  
Sunstreaker looked up from his datapad though his stylus didn't cease the idle shading of the image. “What?”  
  
Bluestreak, taking that as an invitation, vaulted over the back of the bench and dropped down next to him. “I mean, Ratchet's nice and all and but he's old and cranky and he doesn't strike me as your type. Or Sideswipe's.”  
  
He turned his attention back to his sketch. “Does it matter?”  
  
“No, not to anyone else, I guess. I was just curious.” Bluestreak leaned closer, peering over Sunstreaker's arm at his drawing. “You know, it's pretty weird. Everyone keeps talking about how you and Sideswipe get around but no one's ever admitted to interfacing with you. And then you'll berth Ratchet but what about me? Aren't I good enough?”  
  
Sunstreaker's stylus skritched across the datapad with enough force to scratch the screen. He pointedly didn't look at Bluestreak, though the mech's words echoed in his audials.  
  
“Good enough?” he repeated, desperately hoping someone would come along and distract Bluestreak with something shiny. Prowl perhaps. Or Bumblebee. Or anyone.  
  
In the back of his processor, he could hear Sideswipe laughing at him. Teasing him for being afraid (not afraid!) of a friendly mech.  
  
“Or maybe,” Bluestreak continued as though Sunstreaker hadn't even spoken, “Maybe Ratchet won't let you. Cause if that were true, well, I understand. But if you're free, I am, too. And you don't seem busy. At least not right now.”  
  
Wait a minute. Was Bluestreak... propositioning him?  
  
In the back of his processor, Sideswipe was cackling like a mad mech.  
  
Sunstreaker cycled his optics, giving the gunner an incredulous look. There were so many different questions and answers running through Sunstreaker's processor at the moment he honestly didn't know where to begin. His vocalizer, however, blurted out the first thing that seemed to solidify itself.  
  
“I'd have to ask.”  
  
Ask? Ask who? Since when did he need permission for anything?  
  
Bluestreak, oblivious to Sunstreaker's mental confusion, nodded sagely. “I thought so.” A disappointed ex-vent left the gunner, along with a very convincing pout. “Ratchet's one lucky mech.”  
  
He stood up from the bench with a perky bounce of his wings and patted Sunstreaker on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said with a prize-winning smile.  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
Sunstreaker's mouth opened and closed and opened again. “What the frag just happened here?” he asked aloud. He felt a bit like he'd just had two entirely separate conversations.  
  
 _I told you Bluestreak was interested,_ Sideswipe said in a private comm.  
  
 _What does Ratchet have to do with any of it?_ Sunstreaker demanded, exasperation thick in his tone.  
  
 _Everything apparently,_ Sideswipe replied though that didn't answer Sunstreaker's question in the slightest.  
  
He stared at his datapad without really seeing it and wondered when in the Pit his life had become so fragged weird.  
  


o0o0o

  
  
“So,” Wheeljack said with the sort of lilt to his vocals that Ratchet had learned to be wary of, “It's been, what, three hundred vorns now? Or should I say, plus four-million years if you want to count the time we spent in stasis?”  
  
Ratchet, elbows deep in his best friend's internals, cast Wheeljack an annoyed look. “Three hundred vorns since what?”  
  
“Since you finally gave in and fragged Sunstreaker and Sideswipe – ow!”  
  
“Oops,” Ratchet said with utterly sincere apologetic tones. “My mistake.”  
  
Wheeljack fixed him with a glare, indicators flashing a sullen purple at him. The big sparkling. Ratchet had barely pinched him.  
  
“As I was saying,” Wheeljack continued with the smallest of flinches. “Three hundred vorns since a casual interface turned into, well, this.” He waved one hand in illustration to the adjoining berthroom of the Ark's medbay, where Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were currently visible as they curled together in a cute pile of red and yellow limbs.  
  
They were waiting, apparently, for Ratchet to finish fixing Wheeljack so that he could join them. Not that it kept them from falling into recharge without him.  
  
“Your point?”  
  
Wheeljack gave him a long, flat stare. “Do you even realize you've been all but bonded to them all this time?”  
  
“Ridiculous.” Ratchet made a disdainful noise and then finished attaching several key relays, restoring movement to Wheeljack's lower limbs.  
  
His best friend laughed, one hand rising to palm his face. “I don't know who's more oblivious. You or them.”  
  
“It's a fling,” Ratchet corrected.  
  
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”  
  
Ratchet closed up Wheeljack's chassis and patted it with a dull thunk of metal on metal. “There. You're fixed. Kindly try not to blow yourself up anytime soon.”  
  
“This wasn't my fault.” Wheeljack sat up slowly, wiggling his pedes to be sure they worked before swinging them over the side of the berth. “And just rush me out of here, why don't you? Must be eager to join them.”  
  
Ratchet's optics narrowed. “Wheeljack, so help me Primus...”  
  
The engineer held up his hands, hopping down from the berth and backing away slowly. “I know. I know. The love that dare not be designated. I'm going.”  
  
Wheeljack left and Ratchet turned his attention to cleaning up after himself, wiping down his tools and putting his medbay back to order. To be fair, it was still in disarray from the crash and the four-million years spent in stasis. It would take some time to get everything back the way Ratchet needed it to be.  
  
“Can't you leave that mess for the morning?” Sideswipe asked, his sleepy vocals traveling out from the room, across the empty medbay, and teasing Ratchet's audials.  
  
“Berth's cold,” Sunstreaker muttered in addition, burrowing against Sideswipe's backplate.  
  
Ratchet shook his helm, wiping off his hands and tossing the drying cloth onto the counter. “You've gotten spoiled.”  
  
Sideswipe's optics slitted open, lips pulling into a light smile as Ratchet joined them in the berthroom, pausing long enough to key the thin door shut behind him. “You came anyway.”  
  
Annoying slagger had a point.  
  
Ratchet levered himself onto the berth, shoving himself between the twins with no ceremony, having learned that they preferred to be on either side of him. “You realize it's scrap like that which makes the rumors so prevalent?”  
  
Sunstreaker threw a possessive hand over Ratchet's hip, fingers tapping a brief rhythm over Ratchet's interface panel. “So?”  
  
“Who cares?” Sideswipe added, snuggling against Ratchet's chestplate, tucking his face into Ratchet's neck.  
  
Ratchet cued the main lights to shut off, bathing them in the dim glow of the door panel. “It's none of their business anyway,” he agreed and threw an arm over Sideswipe, feeling the comfortable hum of Sunstreaker's systems at his back.  
  
Recharge tapped at the edges of Ratchet's conscious. He wavered, debating, the decision made for him as Sunstreaker's hand ever-so-casually caressed the panel concealing his spike. Testing the waters, so to speak, to see if Ratchet would respond or if he preferred the sweet pull of recharge.  
  
And then Sideswipe shifted, knee effecting a long, sensuous slide up Ratchet's leg, a soft burr of metal on metal vibrating through Ratchet's armor.  
  
Sunstreaker's engine gave a quiet purr, fingers circling Ratchet's spike panel over and over in silent entreaty.  
  
“You're not recharging,” Sideswipe murmured subvocally, ex-vents a warm gush over Ratchet's plating.  
  
Ratchet grinned, his fingers sliding against a transformation seam at the join of Sideswipe's backplate and hip array. He pressed against sensitive lines, feeling Sideswipe shiver against him.  
  
“Seems like you two have other ideas anyway,” Ratchet said, canting his hips just so, giving more room for Sunstreaker to continue his enticing caresses.  
  
Laughter bubbled up from Sideswipe's vocalizer. “We've got four million years of overloads to catch up on.”  
  
“Better get started now,” Sunstreaker added, the mischief in his tone echoing that in his twin's.  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “Insatiable brats,” he teased, but lowered his helm and captured Sideswipe's mouth anyway.  
  
In the series of choices available to him, Ratchet considered it the best of the lot. After all, he had two hot aft twins in his berth. And he planned on keeping them there.  
  
For another three hundred vorn and more.  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yeah. This fic was a challenge from day one (though one I was happy to accept!) and I hope it entertained. There's a few iffy spots that make me contemplate going back and editing out some of the random plot threads that tried to work their way in there. And Jazz and Blaster kept trying to take over, slagging horny bots. 
> 
> Also, this is my first acknowledged attempt at writing real sticky being as I don't count Diplomatic Liaisons because it more or less blends ALL of the methods (the other attempt is anonymous on the kinkmeme and I haven't yet decided if I'll de-anon or not...) Feedback on whether or not I'm Doin' It Rite would be most helpful.
> 
> I suspect I may write more ficlets in this 'verse. I have already set fuzipenguin's flash fiction in this 'verse because it fit and I was stumped otherwise. Heh. Also, I desperately want to know whether or not Wheeljack's stalking pays off. Bwa ha ha.


End file.
